A house grows and is built from the
dirt up.
Hands mold the frame and choke when splinters
rip the skin
Blood paints the walls and salted sweat
drips from the dirt up.
Electric lined the invisible pulse
water bubbles beneath the foundation
patiently waiting a pull
No entrance and keys deny these locks
a family waits in cramped quarters
a dog barks against a window pane
the weight of the house loves the center of the earth
wishes, wedlock, and presses below sea level
windows are shut eyes and lips with two-
by-fours and plywood. The grass
never grew and the lawn is only a desert
Plastic bags kick around the distant swingset
The house is a house and knows its work
A family cries and covers from rain with
their sweatshirts stretched about their heads
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