Monte Bella House

white muslin blowing in the gallery
sea breeze before noon
the inché swings on her neck
as she sweeps and mops out
papa heard the pipe sometime, late in the night, “water come,”
filling buckets, five, six,-sometimes he fills the barrel too
water hitting cement in between
but he is fast, the buckets scrape the floor
as he slides them back, heavy A water song
back in the iron bed under the coverlet
his feet cold, he tries to warm himself against her
he doesn’t like it when she gives him her back
even if she is asleep
there used to be, “BLESS THIS HOUSE” and heavy
laced curtains in the joining room before Oya came and
swept it all clean. Tearing it to pieces
now yards of muslin hang over the louvers in the gallery
they are light and like to catch the wind
like a child’s pinwheel and they blow wild as sails
new lapas in the joining room, kitchen, and bedrooms
she sings in her rocker, “ma ma ngo ngo, ma ma ngo ngo…”
her kalimba sounding like sweet water
trickling over pebbles