The Exchange is the Weekly’s poetry corner, where a poem or piece of writing is presented with a prompt. Readers are welcome to respond to the prompt with original poems, and pieces may be featured in the next issue of the Weekly.
For Sale by Chima “Naira” Ikoro
After “I’m Only Addressing What is Permanent or Pretends to be”
It’s not the end of the world unless 23 years is almost all of your life.
A fraction of my parents’ existence; my entirety with only a little left over.
They talk about the house like it is just a place,
say they’re happy in their respective condos not needing to trim grass or fight with broken screen doors and marriages,
but I’ve never owned anything.
I don’t know when I’ll have a driveway or a garage next.
Folks who bought their homes back when a small fry was a dollar say my generation isn’t trying hard enough.
No matter how early I clock in, a down payment is a pipe dream.
Your advice begs me to break my back just to still go lay in a bed under a leaky roof in a building that’ll one day be rebranded as luxury condos.
They’ll paint the mold matte black and say the popcorn ceilings are rustic.
23 years will one day be just a piece of me.
I will forget which floor board to avoid when I sneak in the house,
and I’ll wish I never thought anything could last forever,
but for now, I redecorate my apartment like it belongs to me.
Clean the baseboards and wipe the walls, take doors off their hinges and redecorate so it can feel new.
My landlord asks if I’m staying another year as a formality.
He comes over to help me put the curtains back on their rods and change the tube behind the dryer,
and I buy furniture to replace what I got for free before I could actually afford to live anywhere but home.
I have always been good at playing pretend,
23 years taught me how to turn a small space into the home you wished the rest of your house would be.
I used to tell my little brother to leave his shoes at the threshold of my bedroom door and knock before entering the only space I could control.
Last month, I slept through the ceiling leaking
and saved up to swap out the fixtures in the shower.
I put furniture over the floorboards that creak and use a walnut to buff out all the scratches.
My landlord’s daughter carved her name into the brick by the furnace back when fries were just a dollar.
I let go of my childhood home and take good care of someone else’s.
Let’s have thanksgiving here. I bought a Christmas tree. My friend sold me his dining table for forty bucks.
I put a down payment on a rack to hold shoes at the door
and my mom takes hers off without being asked,
says it feels good to step on a floor free of eggshells.
I stretch so my back doesn’t break while I sit at my laptop and work.
Prompt:
“What do you need in order to make a home out of wherever you’re standing?”
This could be a poem, journal entry, or a stream-of-consciousness piece. Submissions could be new or formerly written pieces.
Submissions can be sent to bit.ly/ssw-exchange or via email to chima.ikoro@southsideweekly.com
Chima Ikoro is the Weekly’s Community Engagement Coordinator.