Stained wallpaper from the 1930’s—faded green and coral,
lush with blowzy roses and garlands—gets a good laugh
before it’s smashed into dust, fuzz-tone guitars wailing.
Someone jumps feet-first right through it. The oak trim
someone else’s mom teetered on an old stool to lemon oil
is too much wood. Paint it all white. Tear out the absurd
basement toilet her husband visited every morning with
his cigar and newspaper, undisturbed by its lack of walls.
Sledgehammer the black and white tile upstairs, blow out
a bedroom, install white marble and glass. Tell a lie: no one
ever lived here. Or cried herself to sleep. No one shattered
a pitcher of iced tea on the kitchen floor and was instantly
forgiven. No one ever, homework done at last, eased into
the bathtub with curly script on its HOT and COLD faucets.
No one’s nana ever washed her back with a warm cloth
and fragrant, transparent glycerin soap. No one ever died.
