Building a Home

If it’s okay with you,

I think I’m going to build a house

with your laughter as the foundation,  

and your ambition plastered all over  

the living room walls,  

to remind myself I can grow the apples  

needed to bake that apple pie

from my grandmother’s cookbook

that I try not to look at too closely  

to avoid water damage and salt residue  

from crusting the pages shut forever.  

If it’s okay with you,  

I’m going to use your warmth  

to keep the fireplace dancing  

through the winter,  

and your kindness to clean

up the kitchen.  

I’ve made a mess again,  

and if it’s okay with you,  

I’m going to use your hands  

to soak up the leftover lemon juice,  

from my mid-afternoon experiment,

saturating them enough to create

sweet tiny paper tea bags,

so when I’m reading on Sunday morning

you can squeeze raspberry leaves  

into my mouth by the beach.  

If it’s okay with you,  

I’m going to knead you into the dough  

of my life, once I’m sure  

there is raspberry residue left  

underneath your fingernails  

for me to pick out when I’m ready

to be the person you don’t want  

but need as the foundation for

your home.