it is the way you were raised

June 15, 2009 § Leave a comment

Atascadero.

the place my father became him and where he

left him.

if going back had a sound,

it would be hollow.

and twisted, the way you distort your face in direct light.

the sound is hollow like your

name and the house that is no longer yours.

you went out like the things you swept out of the hallway along the floorboards.

“give me a way in,” i remember him saying as he pressed his nose against the window.

and then his hot breath dissolved every image beyond the pane.

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