This year my son’s grandfather had already left
his old home cold and brown. My cousin left
her small apartment, she took the kids
and so her mother my aunt
she followed her daughter and she left
the family home the one that her mother died in,
sold it with all the kid’s
names carved into the concrete out front.
And then my grandma she died
and I tried to keep the house but my son’s grandmother she said no. Next my uncle
he’s leaving and his kids
my cousins are going through all the printed photos they can find inside the cracks
and I think about
the house that my father’s father died in,
his face white and his mouth open,
the house my mother tore down and built upon
something bigger, the new entry of the house where my bedroom used to be.
Does it mean something or nothing at all. These people
do they leave their homes loosely
while the homes stick to my skin,
molasses.
I can spin around them in my mind so does it make them still real,
I can walk around them in my mind so does it mean something or nothing at all,
are the homes less than what we make them to be;
what does it mean that the only thing more important than these people,
are these things,
homes. We spend time. Breathe in cry in cradle in. Does it mean something wild that we can’t quite hold;
or is it just a big quiet nothing,
a big false focus we fall into
as we live our lives fear struck



Love this. Oh, I love this.
We spend lifetimes building a tremendous heritage
Never accepting - it might crack. It shall crack -
what is the meaning of our suffering ?