Take my house
and shred it.
All the mementos,
the snaps of since-past people;
the ducks forever flying; the books; the litter of lampshades;
the oh so valuable, valuables,
and apply for an annulment

I was wed to the adulterous belief
a house would become a home,
a place of sanctuary,
if you built an extension of yourself
into it.
But as I look around from one piece of memory to another,
they fail to jog into the jigsaw puzzle
that might form the anatomy of my life.
Instead, this disjointed pile of fragments, has become an army
blasting me with well-aimed accusations.
For I am a cheat,
as the pictures on the walls-
the eyes and ears of my artifacts-
watch and listen
for moments of infidelity.

It is a con and always has been
that should you follow the habits
of a home, a habitat,
you will be delivered from disconnection,
saved from the certainty of chaos.

I divorce thee house
along with my chattels,
and enter the tempest, the tsunami,
to be flung into a space
as meaningless as matter,
familiar in its anonymity,
for it is the only house that offers me a welcome,
and from now on, I will call it

Linda Hart 10.11.04


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