You can pull nails,   but a hole is made,   and for every hole a haunt   of memory   where the voids   left too small   a space to slip   through my   recall, the   pieces pulled   from my door,   or forget the holes   and nails it once bore      You can pull nails,   but the holes are made   a haunting of memory,   of my mother who always   spoke to me   in similes   of my father's hand,   and the nails it drove      Can we go back   to the way it was once   can we completely mend   or go back to once was   before I met you      Can we go back   to the way it was once?   I'd reclaim all those   pieces from the door   I held   before I met you.