They make our bed and lie about it,
claims denied and care made criminal.
They borrow our hammers to break
every window, call it development.
So I curse the stars and mean it,
empty expanse that used to hold them
made vacant as a bolt of second-chance velvet.
I mar the wood with a tally of blessings,
notch away the permanence of frame,
I help the web find its climb, I reach.
I am not the woman at the gun range
emptying clip after clip into the same target
as if to bring back what she long ago lost.
I let what’s gone stay gone, leave mourning
to the doves. What’s left of the future
is forming now: slippage to harden and
brick reclaimed. Windows once toothy
made blank as bureaucrats. I take back
my hammer, my body, my place
in this city. Here comes the rebuilding.
