by KELLY ZEN-YIE TSAI
made by the hands of Shimon, Luis, Ismail, Pedro, Victor
and at least a dozen more:
the fast-talking plumber with the furry ears
the middle eastern dude and the black dude
who nearly broke their backs lugging the appliances in –
the electrician who wore multiple sweaters in 70 degree weather,
the chinese crew who came in without warning and planted
a black iron banister into the crooked stoop of the front yard,
by Henri who day-dreamt about Brooklyn bookstores
as he swept the stairs,
by Al who left his twin mattress, his two space heaters,
and a dish of crushed-up cigarette butts.
all slathering cement over bricks, laying
lengths of hardwood, fitting pipes, wiring
switches, pouring polyurethane, cutting
slanted sections of dry wall, screwing in
scratched vanity mirrors, running air ducts
zig zag along the walls, sanding, staining,
re-sanding, and re-staining wood.
bless these men who have brought
back to life, what was dead and gone
for ten or fifteen years, (the neighbors
can’t quite remember) present, yet unloved –
the last owner destroyed by fire.
please –
bless this house.
even if it took the greedy disembodied developer,
the unscrupulous real estate agents, the legal
documents curved by the sleight of the lawyer’s
hand – this brick shell of a home, broken windows
and abandoned remnants within, peeling floral
wallpaper, rotten frames, mismatched
sinks, garbage piles roasted by the sun,
half-opened wholesale cartons of unused tile –
please –
bless this house that holds Jasmine, Seema,
Piper, Beto, Kelly.
our rushing footprints, our dreams soon-to-be
sketched out in color on our bedroom walls,
our jumbled boxes and overgrown lives,
spilling from adolescence into adulthood,
spilling out the front gates onto the sidewalks of Tompkins Park,
from fractured romances to parental near-deaths,
from Philly, from Toronto, from D.C., and Chicago.
bless us all as we each hold our breath and stretch our arms
to reach the edges of this house, high on the vapors of drying
varnish, fingers running smooth over newly laid seams,
we rub up against the gumminess of caulk, the grit of grout –
bless this house and the spirits of all those who have gazed
into the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the parlor level for the last 79 years,
who have heaved open and close the 12-foot wooden front doors,
who have hooked a thumb and forefinger around the knob at the base
of the stairs, who have ascended these steps, up the metal ladder,
to climb the rooftop – to behold Brooklyn and beyond.
the ceiling moldings have been scraped, the interior doors
junked, any memory but the walls excised from
this place, house fairies choked with dust,
house fairies dead and dormant, house fairies
clapped back to life again. now. again. now. again.
the sounds of running water, voices rising and falling,
of life between these walls – please, bless this house.
Kelly Tsai’s website is Yellow Gurl