Don’t Empty Houses Ring?

by Claire Nelson

The half-done home at the end of the block becomes

a ghost whispering as leftover hurricane wind whips

sheets of white plastic covering fresh lumber. We stop

in front of the hole in its face, look up into the guts.

My toddler wants to go inside, & I spent my childhood dreaming

bedrooms into unfinished houses around the golf course, stepping

over fresh insulation, my red mud shoeprint still there,

hiding under another family’s memory. But I can’t

give that to my child. So much I can’t give him here.

The list grows—Skittles, hoodie, running in flipflops,

loud music, anger, toy gun. 70 miles from this street,

Ahmaud was murdered when an empty house drew him in.

So much is imagined & so much is poured into the foundation.

The fresh windows busted in the storm & now

my child’s eyes are on the sun reflected in the shards

shining up at us. We grind our heels into the glass & tune

our ears to the wisdom of ghosts. I can give him this.