Thursday, November 24, 2011
Knowing Your House
I don’t care what they say.
Pain is not, will not be a black beauty.
I stood at the edge of a living room
Chair, thinking of all the teachers instead.
Wedged in was the bar in the doorway,
I had to raise my chin and hit it,
But too late, my neck dripped with blood.
I was not knowing the game instead,
Houses were weird today.
My mother of all people
Knocked on the entrance-door,
Dripping with raindrops and sweat,
I was a lover of mothers that heal.
A storm was bursting with summer heat,
Building since noon,
The other children had raced in,
Their shoes scratched across the plywood floor,
Placed by the previous owner.
Kissing, beating and cool gloom occurred,
The family mentioned their births,
The family retired to the basement.