Who holds your home together?
Is it the façade from which you come and go?
Is it the door you open and close?
Somewhere between heart and home
there is that place of coronation,
a throne of tin, twine, copper, and oil.
Is he the one, that one who tips back
on your porch with the ghost of a dog
at his feet growling at mists and memories?
Is she the one, that one who answers
the door with a mouth shaped heart
ready to swallow all your fears with a wink
and smile that couldn’t fool a mirror
but gets you every time anyway?
One storm passes, another comes right soon behind,
from which only humility entertains lasting rights.
Out from your threadbare palace you pull a loose string
through this kingdom of maledictions as end of the world
melodies ring through the maw of your soul baring herself
upon the precipice of heaven’s looming gates
with confessions stuck on the tip of her tongue.
Who holds your home together?
How does your porch lean so and not topple?
How does the doorframe not burst from her girth,
so engorged with your pleading, longing, and worship?
In that place where the crown is polished,
a hive tipped honey dipper out of time
and place drizzles a gluttony of viscous gold
to sweeten the assent of the new King,
same as the old king, one more time
around the apple’s core.
Image from Flickr.
