05 May 2017

Building Dwelling Sobbing

If you don't think place and the discreet
singularities that unfold with them reveal
our being-there, already always given over
to the things in the world, inextricably bound yet free,

try telling that to my seven-year-old son who left
his bed exactly three minutes and sixteen seconds
after I tucked him in, chin-deep under the flannel sheets,
sobbing forlorn, sputtering heavy, indecipherable sighs
about the sudden disappearance of his mama and daddy
and could he stay in either of our houses forever?
And keep all our stuff just where it is in order to keep our
memories alive? In tears he came up with a plan
for he and his brother to trade-off nights at each
of our houses to sustain the continuing, constant
unconcealment of the discreet places we, they, call home.

I had not the heart to tell him that even though
place remains, the naming of such places remains
in flux, and further reveal other voices, other rooms.

I could only cradle him close and through clenched teeth cry,

"Hear our prayer."


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