display | more...

When you arrive, look
past the cheap gold
siding, the pink
and white hidden memories
cracked and punctured
like fresh cigarette
burns on flesh.

When you enter, smell
the coffee to your right,
smoothed over with milk.
Click your nails on the tile
floor and soak your hands
in a sink full of rusty soap
water. Mother and daughter

chat over Roy Orbison
records, the laughter of their
children popping in the air,
and the sizzling whoosh
of the screen door as people
come and go. Let feet
eat up the stairs, heading down

and sit at the dead bar,
swallowed up by time: thick
coats of dust enveloping
the darkened wood, spaces
fit for empty liquor bottles
and barstools filled with parts
of our past we are too stubborn

to let go of. A rocking
horse hibernates on his
feet, the squeak of his motion
long forgotten by most. His soft
brown skin eaten away
by the starving rust
that lurks in the dampness.

Upstairs, towards the corner
of the house, run your hands
over the soft sheets of her
bed still formed to the shape
of her thin frame. Hear her
cough resonate into an echo
from the living room, and

when you leave, let your toes
sink into the same ground
that the sun dips into, and see
two boys standing in the middle
of empty concrete, staring
at a thousand streetlights
poised to explode.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.