The Carpenter

On Forsyth Street
I found out how important home is.

On Forsyth Street
I became my roof and four walls.
I became my blanket and morning coffee.
I cleaned when I had guests over.
Everything moved inward like a black hole.
My brow was the pillow I screamed into,
tears held themselves, dignified but afraid behind my eyes,
and touches of love were not at my fingertips,
but between my lungs, stomach, and heart.
And they held on. They held there in love like stucco and plaster and caulk.
My skin formed a little tighter around me. I held on.

I was suddenly capable of a depth that hurt, it was so far down.
I didn’t know it existed. When I thought I had felt everything,
there was more. There was an alienation and a hurt that
turned a corner to become hopelessness and nearsightedness and obsession.
I was always becoming.
Soon I was a carpenter and a plumber (and the guard after breached security.)
So Forsyth Street was not home.
I was home. I was home. I was home.


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