Sending my poem MY HOUSE slightly REVISED as a word doc attachment Jill
jill stockinger
My House
after the photograph Walking House by Laurie Simmons, 1989
We were so happy when we got married.
Everyone said we’d have the perfect house.
The women assured me it was no worse
than childbirth, it just takes longer, but
it’s worth it, and no matter what happened,
I would always have it; it would never leave me.
Some whispered advice, like “Make sure you have
enough rooms for all the children,” giving me
sly winks, and admonishing, “Wear fresh nylons
and a smile every day.” Another woman stressed,
“Make him buy only top-of-the-line appliances,
nothing second-hand, you have no idea
how important that is,” but I was sure
Ed would buy only the very best for me.
I overheard men tell Ed he was lucky I have
such good legs; they are my best feature,
and I do know how to show them off.
It was a slow process; I had to hold the picture
in my mind and really concentrate before the walls
started sprouting like wings around my head,
and I was so relieved when it started. I ignored
the flashes of pain and worked on growing the walls
up and out. A little blood was no big deal. I just
forced some withering inward, to fit the top part
of my head inside; I worked at not accidentally
letting any body parts spill out the doors
that close and seal tightly or escape through
the five matching windows. Let our neighbors try
to top this: I raised my shoulders and hunched them
like Atlas and shook and shuddered until sharp-
edged rectangular blue roof tiles extruded, rose up
and clapped together, as if saluting the beauty
of the roof on our luxury house and protecting us
completely from anything that might try to get in.
I staggered a bit in my tight high heels
from the insistent, oppressive weight;
it just takes a bit of getting used to, I told myself
severely. Just think how proud Ed will be.
I just need to stop moving about, and the house
will be completely stable and balance easily.
After that, it all came together quickly,
the linoleum floors I could wax ‘til they shined,
the expensive, rugged outside stone façade.
I prudently darkened all the windows, so no
prying eyes could see the treasures locked
inside, the ultra-modern gleaming appliances,
so fitting for a house in this exclusive neighborhood,
surrounded by all these other wives putting their
best houses forward too, for the world to admire.
It’s heavier than I dreamed it would be.
I've got to be careful not to move my head
too much, or the whole house shakes.