Years After

…yes my mountain flower…
                   –Molly (Ulysses)

Each night our house
empties itself of trouble
as all the small things scuttle out,
beetles from the shag rug
silverfish from bookshelves.
As you sleep I patch wormholes
with plaster, caulk crevices
in pearly loops. Our bedroom walls
tremble with mastication:
cockroaches gnawing on fingernail
clippings, termites on pine studs.
As our house crumbles
I whisper in you ear yes—
as if it all could be
reborn like a grafted blood
orange sprig, rewoven
hymen. As you drift half-
drunk, I rummage through
junk drawers, pairing
knives and forks. I count
off my lovers on each tine.
My heart leans inside of
me, laden with unpicked fruit.
The earwig in the cupboard
shudders, squeezing out
the first of her golden brood.