Gary Allen
Ice
Father, I am building this house
out of snow blocks:
it is late in the December afternoon
hands are frozen and feel nothing
secondhand shoes are worn
pulped to cardboard
but the house will be finished
before you come back from work
slamming doors, spitting on hands
to pat back hair
supper divided manyfold
as in the picture above your bed.
Steaming water is thrown
from the windows of the flats
the sun is without warmth or light
my father watches from the step
his jackboot wellingtons
with the tops turned over.
I am building this house father
so that we will all have rooms
see how large they are
each of us will have our own bed
and there are many doors and corridors –
we need never meet on the landings,
if that is what you want father,
think how quiet it will be.
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