the house

six p.m. and the light snakes its way to open

spaces. rust. sediment in grasses that do not

grow. moths humming on loose window panes

where the night creeps in. in here, they say,

in here
. darkness is chewed beneath the

hardwood floors, splinters. like the a e i o u

are slightly off on furniture marks. discontent

is worn like pendants by porcelain dolls with

black holes for eyes. six and i am counting

three cracked plates in the pantry and three

syllables unfurling from my mouth. all the

commotion gathered along the bones of

bruised bedspreads. it is there. every sink is

rinsed clean with immaculate black oil.

outside, the streetlamps are flickering.

silence among the soundless petrified blooms.


words: Cecilia Austin, Philippines (clearcandy daily)
photo: Steve Wing, Florida (sand shadow)


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