by Jim Zola
Believing to be cursed, she commands a crewof twenty-two carpenters and craftsmen to work on her house every hour of every day and night. And so her house grows,stories upon stories, rooms upon rooms,for thirty-six years, with no purpose and no end. Stairways lead nowhere;doors open to walls or air; chimneys stop in attics, inches from breaking through the roof. When she dies, some of the workmen lay downtheir tools and go home, leaving nails half hammered,boards half sawn. Others ornament the lawn,flicking cigarettes or leaning backwith eyes shut. One sings a song in a voice that sounds like the dance of a lame horse.Someone shouts from inside the house. The workers don’t move. Then I am in the house,going from room to room switching lights off and on. I look out the window and seea man staring back in at me. He raises a hand to wave. And though I’m certainhe can’t see me, I raise my hand to answer.