There is a house—I built it brick by brick,
just as the story goes—I built it well,
I mixed the mortar with Moses’ stick,
the one that struck the rock and water fell.
And there it stood at last, to be filled in
with people—guests, and those less guesty, too—
but by the hair of my chinny-chin chin,
a wolf might as well have huffed in and blew
it down. It would have been better if so,
if so I would not have an empty house.
Not fit for those I’d love to get to know,
not even fit for crumbs for Whoville’s mouse.
So fairies lied to me with pretty tales—
with good deeds that my empty house regales.
~~~
My mother never married. So I said,
go do the things you’ve always yearned to do!
Do not waste time recalling what is dead—
take what you love, now love’s been denied you!
My father wasted, looking for a wife.
I said, see all the things you might have seen
if not looking for one to join your life,
and be in every place you might have been!
But you, who never married, must return,
to net an empty sea, to look, to yearn,
to see all those beloved faces spurn
your own, no matter how much love you learn.
And all that love will kill you in the end,
so lose it. And make yourself your best friend.