OUR INHERITED HOUSE

Suppose a god up there in the attic,

Maybe golden, lost among past days,

Some broken thing, not past mending,

That, pieced together, we could praise.

Suppose we found the pieces, arms, a leg,

And fused them to the torso, torso to the head,

And, as we did, the rafters, full of light

Lit up the fears we shatter in our bed.

Suppose the luminous mouth to speak,

Hands raised in a gesture of peace

To call us through the window to the sky—

My love, would we believe our blazing hearts,

Or come back here to the living room to die