This Stone House
It’s curious. The rocks have faces. There’s Mother in bed, too blue to rise, a crack in the
foundation. Father, all show, as decorative as cornices. Siblings, gone: My older sister climbed the
cornerstones, my younger sister crumbled, my brother rolled away. But I’m here, and a hard
wall grows where the door used to hang. Hearthstones are pebbled palliatives; I burn hot and
swallow one for every slight. There are heartbreak stones, weary stones, gravestones. Stones like
fists where my windows used to be. Hard to believe the place still stands. Hard to believe anyone
lives here.
