My House Creaks In The Rain

By Sara Lewis Holmes

My house creaks in the rain,
a porch-skirted grandmother
shifting her lap.

Sing to me, Grandmother.
Comfort me, house.

You are used to
the nattering of raindrops,
used to their prickly breath,

used to cold knees
as they crawl down
your neck to your breast.

Sing to me, Grandmother.
Comfort me, house.

My nipples are cracked
from milk wetness.
My womb shudders

in sharp gusts. I’m rocked
by this baby, this raw-fisted
baby, flooded

by this baby who clings
like rain to the eaves
of my chest.

Grandmother!
House!

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