Mom’s House

These moth-wing's thin walls, 

awash in kids' cries, 

cooking smells, 

dropped things. 

Tempers thrown. 

At times, humming with thundering hurt silence. 

These crisp-thin walls, vibrate, the tuning fork to our improv'ed, mismatched band

 of misfits, timing off,

 just out of touch. 

I can hear you chew your food 

through these walls,

that contract in the late hours of doubt, 

swelling with hope at dawn. 

These walls 

house your prayers, 

the bones of a life 

set piece by piece, 

picked over by memory. 

These yellowed walls, 

tumifying with tear-salted words, 

held within them.

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