I hear familiar hands against my door,
I will write about self-enclosure.
My brother is playing his guitar
in the attic with invisible strings;
the night becomes a howling,
My father reads his Bible breaking
mythical ground, he says
"the extinction of the body
is as inevitable as struggle."
The sound of wolves clawing
at my door; I write about the language
of death, how beautifully
it hunts for silence.
My father says "There are windows
to every soul" I crash through mine
while my mother works barefoot
in the kitchen, picking up the pieces.