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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