Our house crumbled with the August monsoons,
Just folded into a lump of wistful ideas, vain hopes, and drywall,
Corroded by the rainwater pooling in the gutter—
Such a sour smell When you first began building it,
The foundation showed promise—
That thick slab of concrete
Congealing like a bowl of oatmeal
On the hilltop
I remember the stance of the wooden skeleton,
How it looked naked yet bold
And I thought it would hold
It was sweet, the way you
Beamed when I said it looked good,
But when it came to the walls,
You started falling apart.
They bent too much, the walls,
Like cheap silverware you could
Crumple with thumb and forefinger.
But you propped them up with blocks
And a slap of ticky-tack
And that was that. N
ow I want to know—
Could you feel the fragility of those boards?
Did you know that they’d warp and buckle With the slightest pressure?
And were you okay with that?
Because we lived in a house of cards,
And now I’m left picking up the shards
Of what was your poor craftsmanship.
Because we lived with straw skin that
Blew away with the wind
Leaving only our Thin bones
To prop us up.
And because what you carved
Was not a home
But a scar
On a perfectly good hill.