Monday, August 27, 2012

Squatter's Rights ~ 138 Lowman

I lived here once, in a house on this site.
Nothing left now save a pile of bricks and a reclining sentinel
With its soul nailed to the crossbars of life.
I lived here once on this plot, this gaping hole.

Hungry for comfort, I squat and dig for
Leftover pieces of another life, crumbs of what used to be.
I long to quench my unhappy thirst with forgotten tears of laughter,
Warm my waning spirit with past shouts of heated energy.

A shattered brick becomes a conch shell as
Waves lap onto the shoreline fringes of family:
A baby stumbles into her first word,
A dying old woman whispers her last.

A century of howls yanks me back
As the spine breaks away, separates.
Sounds from whimpering souls slip past as
The last pinch of light morphs into dust.

Mama, are you still here?
Do you wander through the rubble
and think, “I lived here once.”

Old wart of a house with all your bumps, lumps and blisters
Fix me with your defiant stare if you have to,
Pin me with your mutinous stance if you must,
But release me from your cantankerous hold.

The old wart roars, “I am you. 
Now and forever, I am you.”
The heated words burn acrid on my tongue.
Go to hell, you deceitful pile of bones. Go to hell.

No half-hearted sigh reaches my ears, no agonizing keen of grief.
No sounds come from the rubble that once was my house.

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