Mom’s House

These moth's wing-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.