Still summer, and Gerardo Ruiz
and his son, Gerardo Ruiz,
have been at it all day, hammer and claw,
prising off what can’t be saved
of the siding, under the layers
of semisolid stain, under the wood grain
swollen with damp, and the labyrinths
drilled out by insects, the plywood, particle board
blackened by decades of rainwater
seeping, streaking, down
and drying, gone spongy, punky,
nails loosening, loose flashing.
They are, in this heat,
ripping off the old boards
and letting them drop,
hoisting and clattering.
The house, we were so sure of it,
inside and out,
its pipes and sump pump,
water tank, HVAC, filters,
its wiring, its ducts and coils.
We abided with the insects and the birds,
the mice and roaches, the sugar ants
running over the tiles and counters, they had
their pathways and lived off our largesse.
We came to understandings.
The two Gerardos see a house
that is like ours,
that occupies
the same space and time, an overlay,
vulnerable and damaged,
but still fixable, as we might see
our own bodies, or the earth.
