The House
Elizabeth Chereskin
Our books are bound
with ivy
varicose veins
dripping down
spines and pages
I can hear squirrels in the walls
a plume-tailed scurry
a rodent’s snicker
Roots are slithering through floorboards
millipedes are ascending
the roots
Pharaoh ants and gypsy moths are all a procession
of walking and flying wallpaper
But it was during the storm
with the rain that falls
in strings of fishing line
those ropes of light
that tether tall buildings to the sky
that I first saved
the pigeon eggs from the city
snuck them home on a subway
nestled them in the attic like an heirloom
Then I clawed
toward the sky
I ripped out the rafters
and stripped the shingles
I wrapped them
in news print:
transferred words and starlight
all I had
to keep them warm
Our books are bound
with ivy
varicose veins
dripping down
spines and pages
I can hear squirrels in the walls
a plume-tailed scurry
a rodent’s snicker
Roots are slithering through floorboards
millipedes are ascending
the roots
Pharaoh ants and gypsy moths are all a procession
of walking and flying wallpaper
But it was during the storm
with the rain that falls
in strings of fishing line
those ropes of light
that tether tall buildings to the sky
that I first saved
the pigeon eggs from the city
snuck them home on a subway
nestled them in the attic like an heirloom
Then I clawed
toward the sky
I ripped out the rafters
and stripped the shingles
I wrapped them
in news print:
transferred words and starlight
all I had
to keep them warm