Closing Costs

Forgive me for wanting
a plot of land, a bit of porch
from which house spiders might drape
sheer curtains—

Forgive me for transporting
my nostalgia for the stones
of my native land into these
applications for financing—

Forgive me for insisting
on some semblance of choice
between Model A and Model B,
for inquiring into

the neighborhood’s history—
for checking how floorboards
cross the grain of wood,
how doors open,

where the heart
of the house might rest.
Among my kind, abode is sacred,
both land and domicile first

amortized by sacrifice: seeds
planted by the doorstep, blood-
smeared coins sunk in the soil
beneath the stone foundations.


In response to Via Negativa: Dirt Farmer.

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