House
February 15th, 2006
By Archived Story
My world was carpet and tiles.
I could never see the floorboards
beneath: ascetics, prostrate under feet.
I asked my Mother questions and I
could tell it was Sunday by the way the sun
soared through the windows and landed
on the backs of the unreasonable
couches. Terry cloth capes,
plastic swords, and I was David.
The ceiling, the floor above it, the roof,
were held up by angles more than walls.
The Smiling Catholic, towering, always
coming home, never leaving.
I saw the next one made.
I saw the cement, the timber,
the glass that went into it.
The walls, the stairs, the nails.
I cut its umbilical chord,
but, being young and foolish,
I cut it improperly.
A professional has to finish the job.
But I hung on to my little bit of it.
Didn’t I? Is it not the stone in my sling?
I am witness, captive to the memory:
I saw the figures and angles
that murdered the angels.
