The parade-roller-coaster-hijinks-
high-kicks-slapstick-show of kids—
your kids, becoming
something like mine, as well.

How close should I hold
them? What will stay?
What will be taken
away? The kids
are never still.
Neither am I.
Neither are we.

Snare drum of dryer and tickle
of zipper going ’round.
I sit seeing if I can
become all house,
can reach peace
with the plumbing, vents, and lofty
operations of this whole rigmarole.

I am becoming woman
of the dishrag, the countertop, the shower.
I am wife-ing the damn house:
tending to her, giving
each careful ministration like a nurse
over a sick bed. I pledge:
We will keep each other safe and clean.
We will keep proper functioning.

If this were a cave,
I would festoon it with honeysuckle
and thick garlands of magnolia blossoms.

If this were the belly of a whale,
I would light candles and read the shadows.

If this were a cockpit,
I’d learn fast how to fly.

This is a house.
I am a woman grown harder
through toil and dedication. Making
it work. Sweating my equity
into every floor board, skinned
knee, illness, frustration, dishes, stitches,
and fits almost blowing the house down.

Under the weight
(an anvil shoved
into the ribcage)
of loving too hard,
I must remember:
Do not confuse Eden
with a really nice rest stop
off I-40, though the space
it offers away
from them all
(the man, the kids, the house)
might beckon and beseech me,
by how green the grass grows.