Ever like a Home (or Ps.23 Backwards)

I want to go home. House, forever:

the good, sweet home where mercy

falls from rafters onto lashes, streams

down corners of the rooms, laps

quietly about the knees, sits happily

beside the setting sun in rooms all rosy,

follows, good and strong, the days,

all the days of life, forever and forever.

House, and ever like a home beside

the street, carved street, painted street,

a ghetto street, house sitting by a refugee

and prisoner and girl. I’ll eat beside

the curb and never die; you’ll build

a table, cover it with candles and a cloth,

some bread and cheese, oil, olives, wine.

The plates will never empty, mouths

will never cease to still be filled and filled

with good – mine, his and his, hers and hers.

The gutters are all streaming leftovers

and excess, welcome and return, so much

it floods my head with thanks and praise.

You are home. Your arms still carry,

still grow strong, like trees, like saplings,

like rooted trees, so old there is no fear

they will be gone. Arms carrying

the shade of trust forever, roots so heavy

in the land they never fear for home.

Before my home I see the chance of death.

Even though I walk, I see the chance to run,

to always be afraid, like children crying

for the sun, like lovers carrying a word undone,

like brothers from a brother shunned. I see

the shadow on the land. I will not fear.

Home, ever arms sink and carry, hope

and tarry in the shadow-land. Like trees,

old saplings, risen from the ground and strong;

the tent, the home still standing, wrapping,

holding, melting, molding, never ceasing,

shooting, springing, sleeping, peace.

I do not want within the home;

the house is full of water from the beams,

sweet stillness from the ceiling, warmth

from every door. A courtyard opens

but it is the earth and sky, not try

and try. The home is finished;

we all know the voice upon the way.

We know because it is the builder.

House. I want to go. Home

is a walk away and when I enter in

I pass beside the name; it is your house,

your name is on the post and hangs

upon the door. There is your rod and staff,

there are the pictures of the path; was it so dark?

Was it so light? Was ever burden easy as it looks

upon recall? There is your name. I know

the path is straight and good and just begun and done.