Just after Brigid, I bought a house.
Named her Clementine. Let the women move in.
They filled the house with lavender and seeds
and warm curries. They built gardens. I wrote poems.
We constructed a maypole from bamboo and ribbons.
Said prayers for lovers, ate strawberry cake.
The hail came. Smashed the windows. Tore off the roof.
Ripped our scabs raw. We kicked off the blankets. We sang
into the fire. Scratched the walls. The ants invaded.
We spread cayenne on counters and down in every crack.
Let our eyes burn from the defense. The house was sweaty.
Swollen and full of our messy shifting. We drank by the moon.
Yelled at the moon. Spread blankets on the roof and told
stories about the moon. The cat birthed three kittens.
She hissed at the dogs. She carried the kittens in her mouth
from room to closet to kitchen cupboard. We watched like
the entire wild had snuck in through the laundry room.
Travelers slept on couches and in our beds. We swatted flies.
The flies loved all the old fruit. We used herbs and tape and jars
of soap to get rid of them. Eventually, it got cold enough.
I learned how not to love. I learned to save things.
Like half of a pecan. She came home. She left again.
It was Samhain by the time the broken glass was fixed.
We made things with pumpkins. We sat on the porch and cried.
Sealed up the windows. Gathered around flames, burned the
things our grandparents gave us. The things that no longer serve us.
We kept the broken language. The hope for land. The strong fingers.
The moon eclipsed the same day winter clawed through the door.
I had already decorated the chartreuse plastic tree. Spelled SLOW
across the mantel. Lit cinnamon candles and pretended we all
lived inside a Christmas card, but the earth’s axis is a dangling
china plate. We don’t have much control over the tilt, the shatter.
I asked the house what it wants in the new year. She said,
I want you to notice when the sun swells. When my bones stretch
like knitting needles to weave women into poems. I made you this
scarf, it fits snug as your longing. Prepare the soil. You never know
what is about to bloom.
