The hammer was enough–
large, framing,a big claw,
absconded from the inlaws,
exchanged for the four years in M_Hell–
a house of corpses from past lives.
The detritus of old magazines and endtables
soiled mattresses, bird seed carpeting
and the cockroach superhighway,
mouse gardens under the tub.
Made more livable by adding our own corpses–
boxes of old dreams stacked in corners and floors
like the spiderwebs you are too lazy to sweep-
the wispy bits of someone else’s home.
We went through all the stages of grief,
except acceptance, prettily dressed
in Bacardi and marital abstinence.
Whitewashed wood paneling
gave way to painted ivy vines
winding frames and molding
to be washed away by blue melancholia.
The consistency of blown fuses
drove the winter laundry drying inside
and our little family room became
nothing more than damp tent flaps,
marking the entrances to cold rooms,
until we were mere revenants
playing Animal Crossing, collecting Lovely Furniture
and fishing for Ceolacanth.
We ran. Back from where we came,
to a cozy B_Ton home
with a gas fireplace residing in the
graveyard of the garage
and the flower garden tangled with raspberries.
But like Barbara Hershey and Katie,
our entity came along, packed in boxes
of journals filled with faded ink.
Once loose our ghosts came to rest
in rooms filled with fleas and abandoned furniture,
destroyed flower gardens, a carpenter’s paradise filled with trash,
the lost potential of a remembered life.
A home with no visitors only rotting floors
and unused corners with boxes of melancholy
until we ran again to beach shore spaces
filled with lawn chairs and boxes,
unused objects, the memories of songs–
the echos of old lives and the hammer,
it was enough.