meadow 

in the field where we used to 
talk to deer, they are growing houses.
tiny as corn kernels. each with a little
hopeful family inside. the father
does not sleep. the mother stands
on the roof & shakes her fist 
at the sun. each year they take
another field nearby & turn it into
suburbia. streets with names like
"meadow" & "honey locust." we live
on a snake's neck turn where
the fields are thrumming with
winter geese. i go & pluck just one house
to take home. i know in the coming days
it will swell & i will no longer 
be able to carry it. i don't know
why i do this but i have to see what 
the tiny people want. i hear them talk
about a new car. i hear them talk about
central air & shoe laces. the children
climb out & around my house.
they eat turkish delight & bananas. they
finger paint on the ceiling. their lines
look like bird footprints. 
i have to keep sucking them up
with the vacuum & pushing them back
inside the house. they say,
"will you adopt us?" i shake my head.
i do not know how to help these
children. the house grows.
to the size of a watermelon 
& then an old tire. i ask my partner
to help me roll it back out
to where they are cutting the earth
like a sheet cake. happy birthday
to someone. we manage to return the house.
the walls are angry. we hear them keening like
freshly lit wood. the children wave
out the windows. the mother, now 
asleep on the roof. the father 
walking back & forth in the living room.
he puts up a sign for a security company
& another that reads, "no trespassing."