I'm the house that burned and stank of smoke in rain
down one long street rattling with the wrong bones.
My body lost its sense of humor
when girlhood refused to rebuild,
pulled out the crooked drive
kicking up ghost-gravel at dawn.
Now my side-door hips swing wide and empty
and my shoulders are secretly fists.
My womb is the ash pit where leaves get lost,
The front yard flags mutter and crack
before warped wood and bricked-up sleep.
But sometimes Im mostly the scarred porch rocker
cradling a few low stars.
Sometimes I am not alone in here.
Sometimes skin-windows lift
to let in maps of ice, words true as stones,
raw promises, fingers of wind.