a week ago it was the crowbars and hammers
and it was the nails that exposed their
necks when the plywood was pried up at
a friend's home in the country.
sliding the back of the hammer's head
and freeing the rusted metal, tossing it aside.
some wasps disturbed, awakened, bumbling and
so much mold from where the water got in,
grey and green and warm.
when i got there, my friend's wife was out
in the field. the sun was warm for november
and she was sitting there, a long ways off, arms
crossed on her knees. shafts of dried corn stalks
cut low to the earth and her blonde hair blowing.
more nails pulled up, more old wood for the fire.
it's a house from the 1840's.
they're a young couple i work with,
just bought it. the earthy brick walls
are worn with wind. they've known each other for ten
years. wooden support beams, bowed. they needed more
room in the house, so they're adding on. the temporary
floor of plywood they'd put in this spring had already
weakened and needed to be replaced.
and now you and i at the bar again for lunch,
first time i'd seen you in months and we're talking
about struggling with homes and with poems. i tell you
to start outside, from across the street. look at it
that way. picture the yard and the garage. there's a strong
foundation in place, so worry about the fence, the hedges.
walk inside and take me with you. show me pictures
of when you were a child. that frizzy hair. build
the house, but don't slave over the measurements. the blue-
prints for home are in those old photos and
yet they aren't.
you are brave,
building a home from memory
as your father threatens to leave the family
and as just last week i pulled up a floor
in a friend's house to find decay and insects.
you see, our lines are no longer parallel
tape measures, no more markings in pencil
and no more erasing and no more layers of
paint. the standing on levels, aligning bubbles
within the guides, feeling the whole thing
on a downward slope and not correcting
in time.
but you should have seen it in my dreams!
you were such a divine design, so many bay windows
and vaulted ceilings and structural flourishes
unmatched. i felt like the architect
was winking at me. then it became summer
and i was away holding measuring tapes
up to other women only to find the sad
dimensions and budgetary constraints.
sometimes it's about knowing what to repair
and what to tear down, when to expand
and when to contract
all that work out to a professional.
my friend and i were working for a while before i saw his wife
stand up from the field and walk back toward the house.
he looked up from the floor beside me, saw her coming and smiled.
there were wasps and sawdust and broken wood all around us.
and then i know i'm not yet ready for you, if
you'd even have me. guilt remaining and growing
like a mold, the precious things of yours i'd damaged
as you were trying to fix them. no,
i have too much to pry up, many parts to improve
before this human house is hospitable.
i want you to have a home
where you can stand on the floors
and not have to worry about what's beneath.
