Calvary Letter Poem by Jane Springer

That shell of our house in Calvary, Georgia no longer reminds me
of the porch—old couch & crush of blackberries,

empty-paned windows, cracked board of Lady Day's voice thrown
into the musk-dirt yard where we danced—

anymore than it reminds me of the kitchen rats & wire baskets
of food hung from the ceiling, or the gerryrigged,

outdoor shower where we stood in mud to get clean—

or Solo, blind dog—the two patches of fur that rose like twin islands
of grass from his mange-bruised ocean of skin.

I want to say the reason one wayfaring bird flew all that way to sing
on the rafter over our attic bed is because

the roof was half missing,
an oak snake ghosted the mantle of the room below,

& there was no other place so in need of restoration as the one where
we lay in a tangle of bliss:

our faith—blind dog—our hope—hung basket—our vows—blank
panes—ourselves—cracked boards.

Can I say that house was a romantic, if irredeemable, mess?
That repairs overwhelmed us?
We cheated work to be done in places?

That we bought new faucets & you moved the stairway & tore down
clapboard walls to reclaim the floor no longer reminds me

of the vows we promised to fix from the foundation up—

you hinging my elbow back into place—
me planing your spine to get it straight.
.
I want to say the reason sparrows smashed into the new sheets
of glass is because unstreaked windows are dangerous to birds

& tin roofs where the flashing's all plumb & gutters flush with
the eves give a false ring to rain.

What it does remind me of—that Calvary house—

is how many gallons of water could soak your wings—how many
pounds of nails I could hold in my beak & still not break.