August 9: Immigrant

Deadmen rows
Half bricks turned sideways
Discolored pieces never meant to see the light
Covered up under a hundred years of plaster

I come from a family of bricklayers
Immigrants intertwined in labor and intermarriage
They built this house, at least
Their union built this house

I cut into the wall with a hammer a crowbar
Dust in my hair and my eyes
Peeling the crust away, undoing their work
Exposing the bones that hold up this house

It's the last summer of our union
It's the last summer in my house
When I visit now I can't look at the wall
An emigrant's memory of immigrants' work