Lessons in Housebuilding

I built my house
from my parents’ bones.
Every wall that sagged,
they extracted a bony pillar
to prop me up,
kept my crags from cracking,
crutched me under legs.
Soon I was the roof
over their heads.
They crawled under me,
rolling like deflated tires.
I tripped over their
sad rounded backs
with my bony stilts.
They said they couldn’t
see me way up there,
so I ripped apart my frame
and took the bones to the trash
like yesterday’s chicken picked clean.
I wobbled on the rubbery red
ropes holding me together.
I learned to stand all over again.
They watched me walk with such pride
that I bowed
as they showered me with the nails
that had once held us together.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.