The house we built gradually
from the ground up when we were young
(three rooms, the walls
raw trees) burned down
last year they said
I didn’t see it, and so
the house is still there in me
among branches as always I stand
inside it looking out
at the rain moving across the lake
but when I go back
to the empty place in the forest
the house will blaze and crumple
suddenly in my mind
collapsing like a cardboard carton
thrown on a bonfire, summers
crackling, my earlier
selves outlined in flame.
Left in my head will be
the blackened earth: the truth.
Where did the house go?
Where do the words go
when we have said them?

  • 0
  • 1
Login to comment...

Liked or faved by...

Gae Dove Maduo

Other works by Margaret Atwood...

Some poets who follow Margaret Atwood...

sulamita™ María G Muñoz Antonella Salvatori ANGIE TATIANA SERNA MORALES Alison Furey Valentinita.