Wednesday, January 04, 2012


A week later I drove north with my brothers

Too many eyes

You look better than a week ago

Cousins I had forgotten, Aunts, Uncles

We gave praise, mumbling

We are still running, still missing the train

There is nothing in the centre, nothing anywhere

I climbed through a window

I am frightened by ladders and locks

A hand in my pocket

She gave me directions

You had one last wish, a fair-ride

Tomorrow will be tough

It's never easy. He wouldn't have wanted it any other way

The room was lined with knives and other instruments

and pickled hands and feet and other men's wives

Greasy slope

The Cabin

We looked at each other, wondering about germs

A servant or a thief, this time

Not one ever missing, not one reported

I am the house you were born in

I am the blanket which covered you

Then you all left me and went traveling

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