April 14: Going Home, Rigoberto Gonzalez, "Casa"

It is going to be a long weekend of church.  Holy Thursday.  Good Friday.  Easter Vigil.  Sunrise Easter service.  Easter morning.  If you are counting, that's five different services in four days.  I'm not complaining.  That's the life of a church musician.  Noon on Sunday, I am going to breathe a huge sigh of relief.

Tonight, I am going home to clean my house.  There is a lingering scent of sewer in the air from this afternoon's surprise.  Then, I may correct some papers, depending on my level of energy.  Or I may read.  Or I may go to bed.

Saint Marty loves his casa.

Casa

by:  Rigoberto Gonzalez

I am not your mother, I will not be moved

by the grief or gratitude of men

who weep like orphans at my door.

I am not a church. I do not answer

prayers but I never turn them down.

Come in and kneel or sit or stand,

the burden of your weight won't lessen

no matter the length of your admission.

Tell me anything you want, I have to listen

but don't expect me to respond

when you tell me you have lost your job

or that your wife has found another love

or that your children took their laughter

to another town. You feel alone and empty?

Color me surprised! I didn't notice they were gone.

Despite the row of faces pinned like medals

to my walls, I didn't earn them.

The scratches on the wood are not my scars.

If there's a smell of spices in the air

blame the trickery of kitchens

or your sad addiction to the yesterdays

that never keep no matter how much you believe

they will. I am not a time capsule.

I do not value pithy things like locks

of hair and milk teeth and ticket stubs

and promise rings—mere particles

of dust I'd blow out to the street if I could

sneeze. Take your high school jersey

and your woman's wedding dress away

from me. Sentimental hoarding bothers me.

So off with you, old couch that cries

in coins as it gets dragged out to the porch.

Farewell, cold bed that breaks its bones

in protest to eviction or foreclosure or

whatever launched this grim parade

of exits. I am not a pet. I do not feel

abandonment. Sometimes I don't even see you

come or go or stay behind. My windows

are your eyes not mine. If you should die

inside me I'll leave it up to you to tell

the neighbors. Shut the heaters off

I do not fear the cold. I'm not the one

who shrinks into the corner of the floor

because whatever made you think

this was a home with warmth isn't here

to sweet-talk anymore. Don't look at me

that way, I'm not to blame. I granted

nothing to the immigrant or exile

that I didn't give a bordercrosser or a native

born. I am not a prize or a wish come true.

I am not a fairytale castle. Though I

used to be, in some distant land inhabited

by dreamers now extinct. Who knows

what happened there? In any case, good

riddance, grotesque fantasy and mirth.

 So long, wall-to-wall disguise in vulgar

suede and chintz. Take care, you fool,

and don't forget that I am just a house,

a structure without soul for those whose

patron saints are longing and despair.