April Poetry | The Homestead

The Homestead

by Margie Doyle

The old folks left dishes
and pictures and chairs
The Great Grandmother loved parties
The more ridiculous, the better

We knew death in that house

The Toby Dammit stranger
Who seduced one of our own
Our brother brought her home
Out of the rain

The girlfriend before
Our brother’s last girlfriend
Now a grandmother herself
Mother of girls, sorrowing

the poet neighbor
Maker of houses himself
And boats and boys and tables
who taught
“Make something beautiful
And give it away”

And even the Great Grandmother
Who stretched her money and her dinners
And just wanted us to sing
And cry together
As if we were all safe in her arms

We knew life in that house

The birth of the magician in a hurry
The unwanted bunnies at Easter
Who became a part of the family
As did the delinquent cat
“you are welcome here”
The prodigal brother said.

The grandkids tearing the place apart
So the screen door is demolished
When the pitcher overthrows
And the catcher doesn’t catch
So what, we’re all together

We knew slumber in that house

Awakened by innocent nightmares
Guarded by the giant cedars
Drawn by the lullaby of the sea

We awoke,
begging
“Please mister, don’t step on me.”

Mattress to mattress
In the big dormitory upstairs
Not recognizing our brother
Because he wasn’t a little kid

This was where the Great Grandmother
Kept her stash
Hoarded her wealth
Counted her treasures

While she stroked our hair
Or cooked our favorite food
Or bought us cars

Though she looked after
Old folks younger
Than herself.