My Home, It Passes Like


The house fell to ashes on shy Thursday afternoon.

This is a picture of my mother.
Cool like a jade stone.
Laced with something manic.
Her neck bends towards the Americas
with a sort of sick jealousy - likes she's
planning something behind her shadow-
like she knows something that she's not
supposed to.
Acridity birthed her and she is the
saddest poster child that I ever saw.
I watch her and taste oceans.

This is a picture of my father.
Old man of a boy.
Brown wood print face with Egyptian jackal eyes.
He liked to tell me that summer was his baby,
plastic beach chair- in the backyard -
His charcoal knees crooked over the seat.
We found a pamphlet in his empty bedroom:

Gamble at this casino
if you want to smile forever.

And he wanted to.

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