That house we all knew and
fell into on our feet and hands,
always dragging our wrists in,
soaking wood, linoleum, rust
into our skin and becoming
one thing--one family. We
were the color of drawings
of noon, shinier and bruised,
harsh in shades so bright
against who we were becoming.
We all decided in unison, in the
quiet way of decisions spent
with much time, to use soft
cloths, soft anything to
null the rust that made us,
scrub off each other, sloughing
years of birthday cakes, time
spent staring at so many yellow
walls, words, so many words,
taken with our own hands
to describe a thing like home.
All of it, falling perpendicular to
the land, leaving stains
on it and us in the shape of
small animals, butterflies
inching across and up our skin,
and underneath, through,
they moved, skipping our new
eyes, staggering across the
slippery, sure plains of our
hearts, with urgency.
Dust is always for later; it
comes into our new spaces
from the stains we bring,
with a vengeance, reminding
us that what can tbe brought
back will leave itself and
will stay in us.
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