what is a home without its children?

the bell in my chest rings before any headline can load.  
i don’t need to see the newest story–  
i already know what a doorless house looks like:  
a mouthless face,          closed system          open wide to the wind–  
                no hinge           no threshold,  
simply a frame failing to hold the hearth close.  

your walls now rot,  
              but field mice once tunneled through them–
into the cupboards for warmth–  
              and swallows stitched nests between the rafters,
so home & protector,  
              you have fought valiantly,
and wind tears through your hollow rooms,  
the windchime left hanging on your porch
              shrieking & clattering wild against the posts.  
the rest of this world’s bells are ringing in your honor, too.
                                                                                                 they all understand;
how can a place protect	when it has been stripped of its people?  
your air does not carry voices–                               blooming only with dust.  
your floorboards are still warped from the weight of feet  
              following familiar pathways,  
                                                                                   but no shoes sit by the door.  
there are no muddy footprints on your porch,  
and what is there to do but trick yourself 	           into a never-ending wait
for their return?

oh, how the earth itself must be crying for you:  
rain pouring down	   in one fell swoop  
at the loss of your daughter     sister     mother–
              the taking of bodies      in day & in night,
picked away like buffalo
              to starve you in every way.  
a drought in your people,  
              though each one lost feels swift as a flash flood.  
the silence left behind hangs thick        enough to touch,  
and the grief spills in like sand,  
              piling & gathering–     exploding past your frame.  
lingering in corners,  
              inside sockets,  
              on the lips.

i claim what i can for you, now:
bells sounding	     & sounding          & sounding.