by Sean Bates
House.
When I walk the land,
the living room, the bolt
turned, the door
latched
when I dial heat
down, dishwasher brrs,
fireplace switches to
“warm enough”.
The hood fan lamplight, set
low, falls on kettle and cast iron
like crown jewels on
display, like tools,
terracotta, used.
I didn’t scrub the glass top
pasta water haze
left from overboil, but even that
placard
is a badge of pride
like the empty sink
where the long neck of the faucet
cranes on display,
brontosaural skeleton
assembled from old parts with new repairs
no longer leaks.
On my beat, I
do the little things:
I straighten the salt mat
near the winter door,
I wipe out the drain catch gunk
because she never does
and that’s ok; we have different jobs.
When I was a kid,
my father’s and mother’s voices,
rarely in unison, still
sung out with harmony,
“Hands off the walls.”
But now,
I touch them all:
the espresso green
we can’t wait to excavate,
but not preserve,
the negative silhouettes where people
before us hung photos.
My hands find places to smooth, gonna
lacquer this whole hallway up,
bring in the light to hide
that ugly greenbrown,
until we pick our color.
Outlets are one thing,
but behind all these blank faceplates, I’m sure,
there’s a spaghetti menagerie
caging wires to the unknown.
Cable guy says, “When you open these walls,
you’ll find out.”
It’s foreboding.
I want to ask,
besides the kids’ crayons in heat vents,
what else did they hide?
I wonder
who needed that many TV’s
or a speaker in each room,
what stopped the upstairs bathroom project
with tacked on trim, and
why why why the greenbrown
—everywhere.
These heights and initials sharpied
to the back of the basement door,
when did you start counting?
You’re not dead,
but I can’t ask you
about your live.
laugh. love. energy
or mismatched molding
behind hearthless fireplace
plugged in— right there.
I don’t care
where you went;
I care to find out
what artifacts are buried in the yard
besides Legos and Nerf darts.
Blinds lowered,
lights off. I wonder
what office will become a bedroom
that needs curtains on curtain rods fixed
to curtain rod brackets or
spackled smooth walls
where I need to sneak between
a pillow and sheets
to replace a baby tooth
with a dollar bill.
We will have our projects
that peel up your children’s heights and hand prints.
We already talk of raising the roof,
blowing out a closet that will go unfinished
and leave new goals on a longer timeline when maybe
I’ll drop a tool and nail
down behind the insulation
before the new wing exhibit is opened
and comes up shining with warmth.
Next year, but not tonight.
I go upstairs.
I climb in bed.
She is just done
reading.
We talk about it.
We try not to let the dreams
keep us awake.
Sean Bates is a poet, writer, and educator in Western Massachusetts by way of Upstate, NY. A graduate of the UMass Amherst MFA for Poets & Writers, his work deals with family, childhood wonder, and the broken promise of the hard-working life. His words have appeared in Stone Canoe, Rising Phoenix Review, and “What Saves Us: Poems of Empathy and Outrage in the Age of Trump”, 2019, edited by Martín Espada. He lives in Easthampton, MA with his wife and son.
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