Where have I been the last two months?  Part of the answer involves tearing out my bathroom floor and fixtures  and reassembling it.  I’m still painting and planning out my reoccupation.  This poem is good for all phases of repair.

Repair                                                                        Hilda Raz

In my house, men tear out the floor:

hammering, then wood splits—

hour on hour. You almost need

safety glasses for this work, the blond says

and truly, as I go for the phone,

the kitchen is now rubble. Delight

a paste bubble in my thoughts. If anger is tangible

here it is, a danger to these men

who let fly plaster, the smell of something old

letting go. They unmake what I made

with my life, or where I made it.


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