Good Bones

Amanda Layne

 

For the lumber I’ve abandoned.

Don’t forget to pack:

the baby blue spruce dad planted in the front yard

the chip in the honeycomb tile powder room floor

the blood stain engrained butcher block countertops

the slamming screen door and separating patio stone weeds

the dog and the bone buried out back

the purple hall walls who saw it all go down

the swing set, the sandbox, the security, the sacrifice

scraped knees, peeling noses, filthy finger nails, asphalt feet

that flying saucer washer and perennial flower pot graveyard

I wonder if the hollyhocks ever bloomed?

a chapel, a battleground, a nursery, a morgue

trick-or-treat, trim-the-tree, tradition-birthplace-legacy

lines etched in the doorframe beneath peeling paint veins

a serendipitous safe haven with mice in the attic

a husband, a wife, a family’s shared life

years of tears of joy and strife

left behind to remind
us of what we’re all made.