She built a home with her hands
each beam uncalculated
but standing erect to perfection
nails nor screws thoughtfully placed
because she couldn’t live in
a home with a rhyme.
Wood splintered on stairs from
the footfalls of men who
took them, smiling back at
the eyes in the walls.
They didn’t match the paint in
the sunroom or the arrangement of
wildflowers at the back window.
Guests ate their
fill and descended sagging steps
none parallel to that above
Most slammed the door
hard at her back and she never
watched them leave.
She slept alone, always,
remembering each visitor’s face
by the way it felt in her hands,
if she had feelings she’d split them