Real Estate Breaking

April 25, 2013 § 1 Comment

Some old houses
remind us of certain pains, real ones —
stomach aches, sore throats, a jaw
at the brink of locking.
Personally, too much marble
makes me think of death,
and old swimming pools remind me
of having once been rich.
They all look like our old presidents —
men in americanas
and cigars, probably bastards
and philanderers, but with all
the right connections. Now
can you see why I talk all the time?
Show me where it hurts.
Take a red Sharpie and encircle the parts
you have trouble speaking of, the words
you have difficulty pronouncing.
We will turn them into
songs.
Because every other district
is built on a sink
hole, a fault
line, on the voice of
the glass-skinned fifteen-year-old from whom
you inherited your body.
But she does not live here anymore.
So draw a line from your pain
to the closest community hospital;
check if the national highways that run
through your palms are prone
to heavy traffic. I’d rather
be lonely than wait.
Here is a map; fold it
into the shape of the animal
that most reminds you of your mother.
Nothing in these houses
reminds me of mine —
I lived in a pouch
on the sturdiest part of her heart.
But everything that brought me
nostalgia is now in the hands
of someone else.
It’s your turn.
Tell me where it hurts
by telling me where
it used to feel better.

Where Am I?

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