Photo by Clay Banks
My father came in slippers.
Dianne Elizabeth Casey
Soft-step.
Slip-step.
The books bit tight
on the shelves.
Leather heat.
Hall-light.
Blue-glow.
Latch-click.
My mother’s nails snagged
thread from my sleeve :
and under,
already under,
the bridge-creak,
pipe-think,
small-breath thing.
Upstairs
I shifted chair-leg,
curtain-mouth,
glass-rattle,
sock-drawer.
An inch.
An inch.
Wait.
The house held its tongue
in the walls.
Outside,
car-hush.
Someone laughing
through smoke-thin headlights.
Then once :
mouth wrong.
Word-warp.
Tongue-trip.
The room went tin-tin,
grin-wide,
teeth-bright.
And laughter travelled
door to door
like a hand
testing locks.
Dianne Elizabeth Casey
Soft-step.
Slip-step.
The books bit tight
on the shelves.
Leather heat.
Hall-light.
Blue-glow.
Latch-click.
My mother’s nails snagged
thread from my sleeve :
and under,
already under,
the bridge-creak,
pipe-think,
small-breath thing.
Upstairs
I shifted chair-leg,
curtain-mouth,
glass-rattle,
sock-drawer.
An inch.
An inch.
Wait.
The house held its tongue
in the walls.
Outside,
car-hush.
Someone laughing
through smoke-thin headlights.
Then once :
mouth wrong.
Word-warp.
Tongue-trip.
The room went tin-tin,
grin-wide,
teeth-bright.
And laughter travelled
door to door
like a hand
testing locks.