The House He Carries

He leaves the classroom
with its weight upon his back:
stiff books, red ink,
a teacher’s echo.

At home, mother’s eyes are dark.
Father’s words stumble into evening,
shattering against the walls.

They have a house,
but no one arrives.

They have beds,
but no one sleeps.

Inside his bag, beneath the paper,
he carries the old courtyard:
the mango tree,
the squirrel still waiting on a branch
for someone who will not come back.

At night,
the house returns to him
only to collapse.

The door.
The window.
The roof.
Falling, one by one.

He wakes to the silence
of a room that does not know his name.

At school, they call him a failure.
He offers no defence.

Life is a hill
he was born beneath.

Every morning he climbs,
carrying a home
that has nowhere to stand.