Home is Not the House

Home is not the house
in which he told me no paint brush
fit the palm of his hand
and the mosquitoes chewed 
a hole in my back 
as I singlehandedly 
painted the exterior trim 
of the two-story structure 
in the woods of Wisconsin;
 
nor the one in which he gifted me
a crowbar and coveralls
so I might learn 
the true meaning of filthy 
when I punched a hole
in the plaster and the remnants
of a 1914 mouse nest showered
my head and shoulders 
with trinkets and dust 
thick as a cloud of gnats;
 
nor the one where he taught me 
electric wiring and how 
my jog became a sprint 
down Ohio streets
when I heard fire engines 
screaming like angry hornets,
saw them line up like carpenter ants 
alongside our driveway, 
and how relieved I was the source 
was a neighbor’s alarm;
 
nor is it the Brentwood box perched
on top a hill so steep he surprised me 
with his and her lawnmowers 
so we might spend more time together— 
chased by the 17-year cicadas;
 
nor is it the small Nashville house 
we remodeled to offset 
the biting winds of Michigan winters
until he decided to “test the market”
and priced it so high our friend
refused to list it but people 
descended like fruit flies on wine 
and it sold in less than five days;
 
nor is it the Victorian tucked in the dunes 
on a piece of land no one thought buildable 
but he had a machete on board the boat 
and sliced through the forest to find the spot,
just like the web-spinning spiders
who discovered it first.
 
Home is not the house but
is the soft hair on his chest
where I place my cheek 
to hear the irregular tap, tap, tap 
of his fragile and damaged heart 
and know he is with me still,
 
unlike any insect that dared 
cross his perimeter 
into one of our many houses.