Dad blowtorches woodwork, clapboard, door.
Blackens the dilapidated house,
alters the sore exterior
in preparation for paint.
After, he drinks,
I am six when I take butter knives,
pop blisters off,
try to wash the charred and bubbled walls.
For months, a ladder leans
between upstairs bedroom windows.
Mom puts on earrings, brooch,
pins on hope,
pulls courage from
the dressing table drawer.
She outlines lips so downturned corners lift,
pats on determination,
corsets her resolve.
She doesn’t know who owns
our stairways without rails,
linoleum floors, colonnades and sconces,
the bare, lath halls.
Who owns wallpaper like butcher’s wrap
waiting to be stripped.
The lawyer sifts through receipts:
Dad’s trips with Ruth, his gifts to Joyce,
money spent for parties with Pipitsa.
“He sends bills from his ‘retreats’ to you?
What do you live on?”