Framing

I was young, playing at being sure
of my life. The man whose name

I used to wear must have loved
the idea of ownership,  of what 

we thought we were building more 
than the thing itself— Not beams

or planks of lumber, honey in
the knotted heart of beautiful pine

with blind whorls for eyes. Not
bricks or river stones nor sea-

horse-shaped pulls, and how smoothly
they'd slide drawers open. How easy

it seemed for him to charm nails, 
pavers, tile, and stain off clerks

at hardware stores, on credit. 
I never knew until pushed 

to face the debt collectors, while
moss began to unfinish floors.

I began to understand he'd fall
and keep falling the depth of glass

after glass into oblivion. Before they
lay the first stone, the carpenters bled

a chicken, cast coins and grains of rice upon
the foundation. But every wall and climbing vine 

saw  what didn't fuse, what shook loose:
the life I took back and that wouldn't settle.