my parents had built a home onto shucked bones,

fitting scavenged doors into old frames on shiny hinges.

before anything else i remember

the parts where the house split apart at the seams.

gaping gaps between floorboards,

dead wood worn bone-tired.

the way they moaned at our mass spooked my brother sleepless for weeks. 

with time we sprawled to fill the cracks,

our curio and sediment–

barbie shoes wedged into wood knots

for all our living the house was old and porous,

outside oozing in at the edge.

stink bugs stalking at the screen door,

maggots writhing in the grain

we were not so guiltless.

the wet heat and mosquito swarm were quick to drive out our mercy,

sequestered somewhere past that stump in the woods

where my gentle father took those roosters quick to dig in their spurs.

in any case the place was warm and amber

spilling out on the yard in slanted shapes

in our time we bled into the rot

til my brother can’t tell his fear of the floor's creaks

from that of our father’s holler

when they splintered his sleep from above.