It has been a meatless season and
\na muted harvest.
\nDead fruit warps from the trees.
\nWe watch it like something forbidden. <\/p>\n
The bald mice I found
\nin the cellar this morning
\nlinger like grease smears
\neven after Sister drew the dead things out.<\/p>\n
Absence in this house is
\ncurdled in sour milk.
\nI see you looming
\nwhen the moon is most pale<\/p>\n
and fog lifts from the cornfield
\nwith shallow breath.
\nYou\u2019re dark,
\nlike a shadow on a lung.<\/p>\n
You always call out
\nwhen you are near,
\nfollow Sister around our bare house
\nrunning cold fingers along the kitchen counter,<\/p>\n
dragging the night behind with your thin wrists
\ninto the attic room, spreading your smell and
\nsearching for children to cull
\nfrom their beds like weeds.<\/p>\n
I remember when she and you
\nspent hours together in that beautiful, lonely
\nroom before everything you touched
\nbled or grew strange. <\/p>\n
Tonight thrushes are shuddering
\ninto a sky heavy with rain
\nthat will fall like bells
\nupon husks of wheat,<\/p>\n
stirring the quiet hum of pollen.
\nGod Himself must be
\nweeping up there in heaven
\ncondemning us once again. <\/p>\n
I see you looming, dark.
\nThe room echoes into itself.
\nSister hollows
\nlike an old animal bone,<\/p>\n
laces fingers over deep scars and
\nbegins to clean the sink.
\nShe lights a black candle on her tongue,
\nchildhood closing around her face like a fist.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Outside, the lightning was swift;
\na sudden rain against my skin,
\nblurring your features into a single gash.
\nThe grey weeds
\nthat spread and withered the yard
\nwhere you buried your black thoughts
\nhave gone yellow.<\/p>\n
Our laundry is hung out as open and raw
\nas strips of new skin.
\nYou sunbathe on the porch
\nlike a corpse,
\nyour mouth a blood plum against
\nthe ruin of your face,
\nyour body quiet as our empty house.<\/p>\n
You have acquired a coldness
\nI know
\nbut not enough
\nto own.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I See You It has been a meatless season and a muted harvest. Dead fruit warps from the trees. We watch it like something forbidden. The bald mice I found in the cellar this morning linger like grease smears even after Sister drew the dead things out. Absence in this house is curdled in sour […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":243,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[351,353],"tags":[355],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n