Faucets dripped.
Gutters overflowed.
The old roof, Vermont slate, leaked.
The two toilets, mysterious machines,
ran, whistled, gurgled, clunked in the night.
Drains backed up with smelly gray suds.
Cellar walls weeped.
Pipes shrieked.
If I took a shower upstairs,
downstairs a water stain
grew on Granma's ceiling.
Once after an extra long shower
("What were you doing in that shower, boy?")
Granma's ceiling
collapsed.
My father was no plumber.
Once he broke a china sink.
Ripped a hole in a bedroom wall,
then didn't come home at all, at all.
Doors grew mildew, ceilings grew mold.
Floor joists quietly rotted.
My own sprouting body grew fungus
in places I didn't dare mention.
Sister moved across the sea;
Brother, to the coast;
Gramma, to the hospital
and gave up the ghost.
I, too, travelled far
though moisture haunted
my every move:
sweating palms,
saliva of lips,
teardrops and their salty tracks,
juice of genitals, flood of birth,
milk of breast . . . The house
was leaking love, my friend,
and no pipe ever
brought it back.
YOU ARE READING
Construction Zone
PoetryThere's dirt under my fingernails, sawdust in my hair. I'm proud to say I hammer nails. Install toilets. Hang drywall. Welcome to the construction zone. Note: I've had to "unpublish" a few poems from this collection because they are going to appear...
