This House Poem by nathan martin

If my house was not skin
then it would have to be paper,
with ancient lunar calendars
written on the sides of my neck.

like a magi i would wander
moving in my secret phases
until many days passed
with a head of white
return home full and whole.

if my house was not bone
then it would have to be glass,
stained and frail
i would break in pieces
to form my mosaic the
drunken poet.

with blackened shades
of green and brown,
i would hang ornately
in some old window of a
luthern church in the minnesotas.

my darkened eyes being
brightened by the passing light
and i would be happy again.

if my house was not blood
then it would have to be ink.

poured out for the common good.

i would bind my wrist in holy books
and nursery rythmes never to
curse again

and i would be so whole
happy and content.