The House That Wouldn’t Sleep

There’s a house outside the county line With a porch that leans

like an old man’s spine

Nobody lives there, nobody leaves

But something moves in the cottonwood trees

My uncle swore he saw a light

In the upstairs room one Tuesday night He crossed himself and drove

away

And never spoke of what he couldn’t say

Some doors don’t open

Some doors don’t close Some things follow

When nobody knows

The house wouldn’t sleep

The walls kept breathing The floorboards answered When I thought I was

leaving The house wouldn’t sleep It knew what I’d done

Kept my shadow in the kitchen

Kept my name on its tongue I

went back with a box of matches

And a pocket full of little scratches From the kind of life

that keeps account Of every hurt you hand around There was a

piano with no keys A family Bible full of leaves A photograph

turned to the wall

Like shame had finally learned to crawl Some prayers go upward

Some rot below

Some things love you

And still won’t let go

The house wouldn’t sleep The walls kept breathing The floorboards answered When

I thought I was leaving The house wouldn’t sleep It knew what

I’d done

Kept my shadow in the kitchen

Kept my name on its tongue

I heard my mother in the pipes I heard my father in

the stairs I heard the child I used to be

Asking if I still cared

I struck one match

Then let it die

Not every ghost

Deserves a fire

So I swept the glass from the front room floor Set a

chair beside the broken door

Sat till morning split the field

And something hungry in me healed The house wouldn’t sleep

But neither did I We kept our watch

Under a colorless sky

The house wouldn’t sleep

It held what was true

Not every haunted thing

Is trying to hurt you

The roof still sags

The weeds still climb

Some homes remember

Out of time