Leach field
The pipe that led
to the concrete bomb shelter
let the late winter air in,
arguably fallout, too,
though not the mice.
Seven decades later,
at the open house,
we watch our heads—
at least when we enter—
ask, Wine or potatoes?
Mold percolates up
through the finished floor
as Mother Nature
according to the inspector
slowly reclaims what is hers.
Outside, by the leach field,
I dream of wildflowers
for the ground
that can hold us,
can hold the most precious
and despised parts of us.
We walk away, back
to this home
where we believe
science is real
love is love
plastic is kasherable
Our ceramic dishes
will stay in the cabinet
absorbent as they are
who knows what
they would leak out
if allowed to speak
The lesson of clay—
that something so porous
can be so lasting
can break so
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