you focus so madly on the walls
created from the bones of dead labor,
payed in gold and forgotten in graves.
the old house speaks for you,
without it you'd break--
creaking, whirled flooring
scratches under your lungs
you'd like to be dead inside
the stomach of the walls sometimes
when the trees dream of hanging your
heart on their branches
strung over the vacant, pale gaps between their
the fireplace is always empty
but for your mother's fresh ashes
and with a breeze, do you think
they'd all just blow away?
no graves to dig, visit,
breathe into hoping to bring-back.
there is no flesh.
only a detached thought
mingled in the static of
the air you used to breathe.
past the circles you burned into the floor
past the window glass, made fake with images and crystals
past the bold carved doorway.
and right when you see
her hanging in the trees,
you pitch forward,
it's a shame your bones
are so broken;
they couldn't make a wall
as strong as mine had for