Ours

Ours are homes we never chose.
Far from anyone we know.
Taps with every faucet on.
Lamps that light an empty lawn.

So we took what we inherited
and we dug a hole to bury it,
all our property and marriages.
All we wanted was a narrative
that was ours.

It was ours.

Ours are ramps that never rest.
Carved from countless heavy steps.
Stairs with every stringer worn.
Wind where they have wound before.

So we threw away the atlases,
all the heavy ones they handed us.
They called us everything but savages,
but we found a couple passages
that were ours.

That were ours.

So we spoke in lower registers
than the merchants and the ministers.
We were little more than whisperers.
But we found a couple listeners,
they were ours.

They were ours.