House

I was born in that house
of dry dust coal bunkers
and myriad grain diamonds scattered,
blanketing the starved concrete
with sparks.

Piles of cement, the haphazard cenotaphs
of murdered selves, scorned, alone.
Encrouching the bald fabric lawn,
rudely assaulted by fruit trees,
whose sweet gifts were the only food
to love starved children.

I was pushed into an arrid summer of
dry tonges, flopping leather greedy.
Baked earth begging sky for rain.
But sky donates the curse of sun and sandstorms,
forever closed my salted stinging eyes
and never quenched my thirst
or drowned my sorrows.
Children of the secret
left alone.