How many houses
we have built up
inhabited, torn down.
The space below the bed
the table draped in sheeting
the leaning branches
elephant ear leaves attached with thorns
the grass-roofed
open-walled hut
the place beneath the stairs
dark and steaming
with the smell of noodles
tamped-down earth
blanket walls.
We invented rules
custom hung on a nail
a twist of ribbon
a certain page from a book
that remains there
the way you hitched
a knee to climb
up or under—through
a rough opening of tree branches.
Gaston Bachelard
speaks of “recapturing
the reflexes of the ‘first stairway’”
“The feel of the tiniest latch has remained in our hands.”
In my hands, so many
houses I’ve been building,
dreaming, destroying.
Always, with the primitive forts
came the moment of destruction.
Pulling down with our hands
what we immediately begin to rebuild in our dreams.
2 comments:
that is incredibly moving; the way we see houses so differently intrigues and fascinates me, and I love this further glimpse into the tactile sensation of your memories of home.
I have a bittersweet memory of the green leafy hut you and Marissa built down by the creek. Bitter because I did not photograph it; sweet because it is still there.
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