Come on thunder, please.

She often

takes the living room

and unscrews the lamps,

the furniture, detaches the

table tops from the legs

and asks you

what it means in this state.

She asks you

to put it all back in the

exact same order,

the same way her mother had it,

the same way her older sisters had it,

the same way she read and felt about it.

Sew the fabric over the cushion

and lay the legs strait

to attach the slabs of polished wood.

She consumes them like water.

And it runs through her miracle veins

splintery and solid.

She is spread as jam on the carpeting

and you go to lick

up the sweet leaking residue

in attempt to begin

the reconstruction.

What she also knows

wont hurt her;

You happen to have

arms made of

heavy things

and when they

walk into the house

and see what

she has done to serenity,

you will leave.

Even when she knows

her heavy thing legs

could rebuild with ease

what your arms could never carry.