The Home That You Built
1997

The home that you built is an unpublished poem by Karen Press. It is a poem which I have turned over and over in my mind for more than a year. Here, on this erased land, its evocative literary voice is merging with the packed soil. The boxes, both ground-plea and temporary suitcases, are the pages on which the home is built.

This installation was part of the District Six Public Sculpture Project, 1997, curated by Kevin Brand
and Renate Meyer.

Poem by Karen Press

This is the home that you built.
This is the mist that comes in the night
And stays till morning
Circling the home that you built.

This is the sea
that sends in the mist
that comes in the night
and stays till morning
circling the home that you built.

These are the tears
that fill the sea
that sends in the mist
that comes in the night
and stays till morning
circling the home that you built.

This is the lawn
that drinks the mist
sent by the sea so full of tears
that comes in the night
and stays till morning
circling the home that you built.

These are the ones who own the bones
that feed the lawn
that drink the mist
sent by the sea so full of tears
that comes in the night
and stays till morning
circling the home that you built.

These are the children of the ones
who owned the bones
that feed the lawn
that drink the mist
sent by the sea so full of tears
that comes in the night
and stays till morning
circling the home that you built.

This is the road the children took
searching for their ancestors
who owned the bones
that feed the lawn
that drinks the mist
sent by the sea so full of tears
that comes in the night
and stays till morning
circling the home that you built.

These are the doors along the road
that children took
searching for their ancestors
who owned the bones
that feed the lawn
that drinks the mist
sent by the sea so full of tears
that comes in the night
and stays till morning
circling the home that you built.

These are the marks upon the doors
along the roads the children took
searching for their ancestors
who owned the bones
that feed the lawn
that drinks the mist
sent by the sea so full of tears
that comes in the night
and stays till morning
circling the home that you built.

These are the hands that wore the marks
in the doors along the road
the children took
searching for their ancestors
who owned the bones
that feed the lawn
that drinks the mist
sent by the sea so full of tears
that comes in the night
and stays till morning
circling the home that you built.

These are the questions in the hands
that wore the marks into the doors
along the road the children took
searching for their ancestors
who owned the bones
that feed the lawn
that drinks the mist
sent by the sea so full of tears
that comes in the night
and stays till morning
circling the home that you built.

This is the wind that gathered the questions
from the hands that marked the doors
along the road the children took
searching for their ancestors
who owned the bones
that feed the lawn
that drinks the mist
sent by the sea so full of tears
that comes in the night
and stays till morning
circling the home that you built.

These are the walls that feel the force
of the wind that gathers the questions
from the hands that marked the doors
along the road the children took
searching for their ancestors
who owned the bones
that feed the lawn
that drinks the mist
sent by the sea so full of tears
that comes in the night
and stays till morning
circling the home that you built.