The Beautiful Hunt

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,
terrible creature.

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.

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