Michael's House

Michael's House


It's good and solid,
built of fresh-scented wood with tough brick,
all multicolored, warm to the touch like a glass of mulled wine.
He cries: "Michael's house" every time we enter.
But it's nobody's house.
No one lives there.
They come and go, a way-station for the severed.

I think of the hospital, cool and bright,
forced smiles, nurses waving bye-bye,
off to half-way houses, group homes.
Michael doesn't want to live there.
His eyes beg me: "Let me heal!"

The doctor says no.

Can you feel the shivery wind,
blowing through the empty house,
like the silent breath of the bleeding Lord?


(This was one of the first poems I put on CV-I wanted it here as well after a few tweaks.)