Thirty-Four Holes Make A Home Poem by Francie Lynch

There are thirty-four holes to fill in your home.
That could do.
All things gravitate their way.

I brought capsules
Filled with the smells of spade-turned earth,
And a sun-dried piece of carpet beneath my knees,
Lying between morning rows of an unwed garden that
Touched my arms, as I reached out.

Holes begin to fill.

Then there is the touch of a cool coin in a pocket hole,
The sound of gravel crushed beneath tires on a promised Beach Day.
There, swaddled in towels, waiting.
The heat is piled on the hood, and mixes with the
Smoke-soaked upholstery.

Several holes to go.

I smear mud, made by man, and mixed with the
Smells of a parental bedroom, worn work clothes,
A sweat-dried pillow, and an open window.

Holes are disappearing.

The nursery ceiling has been dimpled beneath hot-wired survival smells
You too will know.

Fewer now.

When you moved to another room,
I filled with a tree and a bone,
Holidays, blankets, music and soothing cover stories,
Then sanded above me,
Behind the mask of a mime.

One left.

So, I finished the job,
Smoothing and painting over the scabs.

No picking. No scratching.