The House By The Canal

The house’s wrinkled skin highlights
the bricks left and ribcage that took a few blues,
and those dark circles around the windows,
those bleeding rusty guts whose decay we
need no doctor to measure and know
about that unavailable permanent cure.
My sister wonders if falling in love with the house
has brought its downfall. I do not pay
much attention to what she says. She says this
about everything she loves and detects tuberculosis
in every leaving. Au contraire house eats her
with its wistful maws. A canal flows grief
until it meets a broader waterway, finds insignificance
and dissolves away. I promise her to build
another house on this plot as if I can afford
or if I tear the history down it will be gone
unlike the dead ones who lives on.

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