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.