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This is the house (and jungle-strangled yard I come from
The air out here is supper-singed (and bruise-tingeing)
From where I’m hid (a perfect Y-crotch perch of
medicine-smelling sweet-gum), I can belly-worry this
(welted) branch and watch for swells (and coming squalls)
along our elbow-curve of river, or I can hunker-turn and
brace my trunk and limbs—and face my home.
Our roof is crimp-ribbed (and buckling) tin, and tar.
Our (in-warped) wooden porch-door is kick-scarred and
splintering. The hinges of it rust-cry and -rasp in time with
every Tailspin-wind, and jamb-slap (and after-slap), and shudder.
Our steps are slabs of cinder-crush and -temper, tamped
See that funnel-blur of color in the red-gold glass?
—Mama, mainly: boiling jelly. She’s the apron-yellow
(rickracked) plaid in there, and stove-coil coral; the quick
silver blade-flash, plus the (magma-brimming) ladle-splash;
that’s her behind the bramble-berry purple, sieved and stored.
Out here, crickets are cricking their legs. Turtlets are
cringing in their bunker-shells and burrows. Once-bedded
nightcrawling worms are nerving up through beanvine-roots
(and moonvines),—and dew-shining now, and cursive:
Mama will pressure-cook and scald and pan-scorch and frizzle.
Daddy will river-drift down to the (falling-down) dock.
I myself will monkey-shinny so high no bark-burns (or tree-rats,
or tides) or lava-spit can reach me.
I will hunt for after-scraps (and sparks) and eat them all.