My Aunt’s House


at the start of the winding stairs is a picture I recognize, a face like my own,

from the country I heard was home, but not a place anyone could live—

only that it left those who left with a tremendous longing for a house;

one that looked just so and felt just right, filled with voices telling stories

and making jokes—unaccountable for the missing, the noisy saws and

hammers building, building, always rebuilding as if construction could

save the world one house, one family home at a time; and as I climb

these well-built, sturdy old steps I wonder too if it might be so—

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