We have moved to a new house
A grey stucco, two-story, decrepit hulk
My room upstairs, the parents’ down
Sister and the little boy in the basement
My father’s face glowers brighter than his cigarette ash
We move like dance partners in and out
bumping rumps until bruises burst purple blue
My shawled mother, Hispanic,
scuttles about like a mouse
My starving sister and the little boy
sit at the kitchen table and drink air from teacups
I stand in my empty bedroom – no bed or chest or lamp
Up the stairs from the kitchen, as huge as a tennis court
We could all sleep in here in the lightless cavern
Then the wood floor creaks:
the little boy peeking in the doorway
Next morning, I go anywhere
When I return, the stairs leading to my room
have been sawed off, the kitchen bathed in sawdust
My sister and the little boy refugees
and plates and cups all drenched in deep, sweet dust
I look up to the gaping hole in the upstairs floor
Mother chewing her cheeks, kids licking sawdust
like it was powdered candy
Mother’s face an old, folded roadmap,
her rosary beating like a heart
I walk to my father’s chair, he reads the funnies
Why did you do that, I ask, why cut off the stairs?
Be out of the house by night, or I will beat you senseless
growls the crackerjack in the Lazy Boy chair
He has already done that – what is different
in this new old, old new house?
You cannot hurt me, I say,
I can lift you with a finger
And he throws the stare that used to horrify me
I no longer afraid, but in the next war
I know we will fight to the death
He flings the newspaper in the air and stands
grabbing the little boy by the throat
Then he runs out the doorless front entrance
In the kitchen, the mother brushes the children’s hair,
The little boy rhythmically clapping his hands on the table
She fingers the rosary and offers a silent prayer
a prayer for this house not meant to stand
We must go, Son, she whispers,
the little one has told me things
“The little one” drawing prophecy in sawdust
Then we pack our no belongings, our no clothes, no photos
We walk through the garden alone
then we are in the alley, long walls of garages
We look back at the grey stucco, two story, decrepit hulk
Our father lighting it afire
reveling in the flames on his arms
We drive away, my bent mother in her shawl, the little boy, crying
my sister holding him – me – while I watch
And we drive into the sun
It is a dream, remember