by Tim Mak

I love this old house.
The way an old foot gingerly steps from the bed
onto the wooden floor
and yet still makes a creek in another room,
or the rumble of young hands thumping
the grains in erratic rhythms.
I touch the whorls of the knobs,
trace the meandering of the age lines,
and swear I feel a tiny breath where I place my fingers,
the floor sighing in recognition.

And then you wake, and in whirls of your eyes
and the whorls of your fingertips
I see a construction so exquisite:
This woman has been worn.
I hear and feel the rustiness of joint against bone
as I gently massage your shoulders,
and the creeking--sweetly satisfying
My house, house, home.

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