by Matthew Wimberley

Push pines ached into the wind,
sending shadows inside to Pollock
the wall with splintered dark. Moths

hid in the light, dusted wings
shook themselves dry.
Some mornings I found them
collected along floorboards like pressed flowers.
Not tonight. They had something

to pray to. Mom's cries stumbled along
white crown molding and through the ceiling
Dad had already slurred out more
than I could take. I heard

glass bottles knocked over, more
than we could carry, all of us.

Hushed beside the windowsill
my hands banged against the shadowed
wall. Finger prints removed themselves

from my skin, circling the house, a forest
of trees peeled to their cores and flattened
into paint. Morning would dissolve

everything left, between
wood-grain and panes of glass. Strange
to still hear her voice, crying so clearly
years later.