Sonnet XI

The house falls down. There’s nothing to be done
about that. She reclaims the things they stole.
Studs rot. Drywall crumbles. Her fingers run
up walls to grasp, down foundations to hold.
Whole continents move. Even those whose bone
lies calcic in its unmarked, homemade tomb
are ground under. Part limestone or part loam,
all lost. Yet vacant bellies hold a womb
whose children are a million years apart.
Gills or no they swim to fill the sea
with grandchildren. They casually discard
that parent who they curse as absentee.
Beside her deathbed they erect a town,
but she’ll outlive them all to tear it down.