4 House

by Lisa Harris

A square, a cross, and four directions place us in space and make us stable.
We are fixed in a stillness that draws our energy in.
Seeking a haven, we read signs and symbols silently.
We want a house to hold us the way we hold each other: tight and loose.

Loose and tight we hold and release, release and hold.
Your knee brushes against my elbow, my cheekbone rests upon your brow.
Buddhists say our beloved is our house.
At a recent dinner party guests complimented our meal.

“This gumbo is delicious, and the bouquet smells sweet.”
You nod and say, “My house made this gumbo. My house gathered
this bouquet from flowers she grew in her garden.”
We are each other’s house. We are blessed in this way.

We dwell in the heart of our true love: in cold and heat,
in joy and grief, in feast and famine, and together we make a house.
We ignore life’s four sore judgments: war, famine, wild beasts and pestilence
when we can. We vote our conscience and hold hands.

Grace sings of miracles, wonders, signs and gifts.
I watch as you push blades against grass,
leaves against rake, brush against wall, and pull
me into the house your arms make.

Her house and his house. Our house.
We think all things four: Four gospels, four points on a compass
and on a cross, four quarters in a dollar, four chambers
in our pounding hearts. Imagine quaking stars and raging seas,

galaxies made of glass, hummingbirds and buzzing bees
announcing our relocation, arriving in the present by returning home.


Category: Poetry, SNHU Creative Writing, SNHU online creative writing