Here, we laid to rest the bones Of my grandmother’s house In the country dirt Velvety with worms. As we light the wooden foundation, I realize In the blink of an adult eye, A year disappears. That’s why as children, We can’t understand the value Of staring contests. Fighting the humidity The fire climbs eagerly Pulling itself along the peeling roof with blue-tipped fingers Hungry for asbestos Watching below, I remember: Coffee, splashed with milk Armed to the teeth with sugar Marching across my mouth at the breakfast table While she fanned a grease fire Toward the open screen door. Later, while searching for soda pop In the back of the dusty pantry, My cousins and I shrieked Over the gams of a passing daddy long-leg. Her nearby barn had a steeple On top, a cloudy glass ball She said it wards off lightning, But I know the truth. There is magic in this place. As the flames engulf the porch, I can hear screams inside The living room several Christmases ago Tearing of wrapping paper, siren-bright. Bodies everywhere Flopped across pillows, swollen with ham and potatoes. Now the house dissolves like a sandcastle, On the beach of this bucolic landscape As the moonless tide of prairie grasses Sweeps it out to sea. Here, we laid to rest the bones Of my grandmother’s house But in restless peace I find longing, An ache for a home where magic from the sky Finds new passage underground.
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