This crack was inevitable -
the house wished to breathe naturally
through its verandah,
to curve outwards like an open mouth
cracking a smile, loosening
the concrete between its teeth.
It expands and contracts with the seasons,
depending on the moisture in the clay soil,
making room for itself,
accommodating its ill-fitting dentures,
even branching out to form a delta
that mirrors the branch above.
Moving lines, above and below,
this crack was here before us,
and it’ll be here when we leave.
I don’t bother telling people it’s not a renovation job.
But if I should say, it’s a toothsome little creek
I’d like to fill with gold -
I don’t. Not when it's the only one I have.
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