A House Big Enough to Never Leave

Caitlin Maling

The end result is always the same –
the roof gives, rafters poke through plaster
like green stick fractures, a family photo
hangs askew; one from a driving tour
of Europe is cracked on the ground.
They say grief eventually leaves
the body like nail clippings flushed
but a house is a different, entirely
solid, even in disaster the rubble breaks a toe,
you’re picking glass out of your hair.
You say that’s the frame of his chair over there.
Is this the darkness that wails in caves
for us to find tongues for shadows,
to pluck stalactites from the ceilings
and suckle them, our breasts black and blue
like some mirror of a far-off sky.