Places We Visit Once, & Never Again

Not the whole house, just the bed-
room where a dead boy still has not
quite died. Humming from posters,
trophies, within the seashells lining
a window that has never overlooked
an ocean. Not the entire river either,
just its shore, that drowning half of
the tide. It's not that we don’t miss
the field, where the farmhands pray
for rain to stop, then pray pray pray
for it to rain again. But let's skip the
storm part next time. The thirst, its
prayers. After my father dragged me
to Gettysburg when I was twelve &
told me to look, really look I knew
we’d never return. Not from that.
Next time let’s dig a hole the size of
a child & set a small fire inside &
move two counties away & see if it
is true what they say about wounds.
Instead of just his room, let's leave
the whole house to echo by itself.