We build our homes in the same way
young people go about improvisational theater;
an underbaked joke of drywall jutting
in the hallway, loose lines of electrical wire
hanging before the silent audience
of the pieced-together plywood.
We embroider flowered rounds
of fabric pulled taught like botoxed skin
with love-letter lines, like
This house would still be the same without you,
or Your presence here is barely noticed.
We waste postage on letters addressed
to this very house, each other’s names
scrawled on the yellowed envelope,
tucked into the rusted mailbox leaning
like a cardboard crown on a rained-out playground.
We like the taste of wasted love,
we like the power of faking it,
this kingdom of breaking things
beneath our feet.
”Housing Plans” is a poem that I wrote in 2019. It was published in Bleached Butterfly, which you can read online.