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My Father's HouseAuthor(s): Debra BruceSource: The Iowa Review, Vol. 4, No. 3 (Summer, 1973), pp. 26-27Published by: University of IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20158068 .
Accessed: 15/06/2014 07:32
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MY FATHER'S HOUSE
In my father's house ...
a plate full of chicken bones, and a wide eyed arch
opening the hallway. I remember before the house caved in?
cushions of gingerbread and a bicycle with a wet spine
lurching in the rain.
Two brothers pushed its brittle frame
through the back door.
The whining of those silvery bones
and the coughing of chains
were as hoarse as the moon's.
The summer of the hurricane
the house fell.
It was a storm of voices, the winds from my father's belly then slow rains
watering his chin.
It was the crying of my father
over the chicken plates, or maybe over the broken back step or the bare peach tree.
The summer the house fell
its walls lay down,
breathing like tired men.
The curtains whispered, then folded their flowery ears.
The china splashed.
It was a storm of glass, of broken colors.
The eyes of my father were splintered and bled with crystal.
This content downloaded from 62.122.79.90 on Sun, 15 Jun 2014 07:32:53 AMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
Only the cat could see
loosening its fingers on a wide, backyard birch
with the gold spoons of its eyes, saying
The house is falling The house is falling
with the gold flash from its eyes
warning the tree.
27 Debra Bruce
This content downloaded from 62.122.79.90 on Sun, 15 Jun 2014 07:32:53 AMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
