Developments
Moving between soffits and septic tank
into a house wandering and quiet, shiplapped
but exposed, the woman rearranges her life
into vertical parts. Some fastenings are undone
and each interior door has been sealed.
The corner tight by anchor bolt is still an edge
of shadowed light, her smile wide and blinking,
full of holes. She stands in the shadow
of anticipation and looks straight south through
the flattened horizon into a future
of other architecture. She wants a frame
without pitch, without anger. These 12 years
the caulking did not hold; weep cuts could not stop
tears from moving back into the house again.
Excess load has increased the chance of another failure.
If damage was factored into the design,
she was unaware. Look at the cracks
in the concrete, the door jamb. People notice
more than miters in moulding. Even at the start,
the house wasn’t plumb; it was never that simple
to say his love was structurally rigid
or exactly perpendicular to hers. He developed
other properties with his good blonde looks,
and she knew enough to mask the joints,
but the interior finish keeps eroding.
Her typical state is fatigue, a nailing surface for dread.
That the paint has cured is a matter of course,
but the continuous force of waiting:
it is this that she faces. This, and the sashing
of a glass past. She hides in the dormer,
talking on her phone for hours, staring
into the roof ridge. Everything was braced
by gypsum and plywood, joists and struts.
Even though the house was expertly built,
surfaces seem to leak and expand.
| Lauren Camp |
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