everyone is this house is a poet,
family disgrace or matriarch.
you can hear dishes being done in long-held words,
see dust dance along the
rafters you used to sit and purse
there’s prose from the living room,
where Dad used to fall asleep every
a long week around the
there’s music in the shortfalls,
in how he never called back after leaving;
in the walls and ceilings
that lack proper insulation in winter.
there’s a symphony in splintered faith,
beauty in unknowns.
a story behind those broken bones,
but a better one in
how you got back up and learned to
love your legs again.
there are stanzas in the tropes
that’ve kept us all together,
weaving rhyme with passages in time,
creating something that will likely
alive if slightly left off-center
playing back creations we would have never