Hand and Foot

a house won’t build you backthough you patch the cracked backporch each time it splits. the lightwon’t even screw you anymore,though you’re ready to turn the bulbwith a loving hand gloved in tenderness. though you are unafraidof burn marks, ink marks, scratchesthat dye the laundry pink, the laundrywon’t ever soothe your furrowswith the steam and press, won’tfrisk the sink and closet forthe right chemicals—not that one,that one. the dishes sit and reflectyou in their limestone half-moons.doors open and close suddenly,as though haunted, while you sipan eyeball’s weight of whiskey

one at a time.   look at yourself.the house won’t build you back.the light won’t even screw you.