My legs shake
afraid of the zesty child
chipping like the white paint
that cover the walls of the house
now inside a sinkhole.
We’ve tinkered with it enough
the cracks and tears have already won
devastation deserving of medals
as we reason with the loss of her
buried inside her folding carcass.
But some nights our hands
still cup the lonely silt remains
belonging to this deadbeat land
spoiling our feathered fingers
too afraid she’ll be forgotten.
I’m scared she’ll keep us down there
to linger without lungfuls of sunshine
peeping through cotton mountains
we can see with care
through sofas wedged together.
I can hear the gentle noises as swift
as the sound of breaking bones
through the ribs of floorboard
she’s too shy to show-
too shy to spill her grief.