Taking Down the House
We bring our pickaxes; we dig
beneath the translucent skin
for a blue electric vein
as plaster flies. We follow the stains
from ceiling to baseboard,
cheek to chin.
If the children cry, we tell ourselves
they won’t remember.
Place no blame
for what shattered the walls. They’ll take up
their own hammering and, grown
impervious,
they’ll shoulder rucksacks and axes
into the basement,
burrowing for the good line,
the one we once found
for them,
before the walls came down.
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