It’s Guynes Street, still.
The house has the same
flat bricks as my
grandparent’s place,
painted filigree iron
to hold up the carport,
honeysuckle bushes,
and no front door.
Inside, they’ve kept
the old decor:
spinet piano, doilies
on the couch, china
in the sideboard.
It’s all too fragile,
knowing what I know:
the curtains too sheer,
the panes too thin.
On that morning they hit
the floor, having practiced before—
If there is one rule
in poetry it should be:
Write your own pain.
This isn’t my home,
I am a temporary resident
and my family ties are
blessedly recent
but…
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ana ayamamani 