Mothsby 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. |