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