Later wood was laid on, and new stories
and rooms for all the children. A back gate
and an alcove. We were happy there.
In that house, deep in the walls,
termites were given
in marriage and were fruitful
and ate of the fruit of those trees
which built that house.
We noticed, bit by bit. Shavings
fell from the corners
where the walls met. The floors gave
gently when we stepped.
But we didn't mind. It's old,
we said. Old houses bend,
and lose things.
Then my father
dropped his match and
the flicker caught the dust
crumbling from the door
and crawled lightly
up the wall while we held
our breath and hoped
it wouldn't grow.
The den went first,
where we gathered. The coffee table sighed
and turned over, charring
in strips. We all left for our rooms.
It's not a hungry fire. It burns slowly,
one wall at a time. Smoke sticks
in our lungs, and the dust
falls grey like ash. Outside,
my father's well laps cold
under the earth. Soon,
soon it will all give way
but the stones.
