they lived in a
tiny house
with windows
missing
so it always seemed
as if the tiny house
was squinting
its front yard
was a tangled mess of balding hair
clawing at rusty lawn furniture
and old bicycles
the kitchen
with its rickety linoleum,
the mother’s shifting weight
coaxed the best songs out of it
late at night
while washing dishes
the father,
sitting somewhere
reading his newspaper
a glass of something near by
the radio on
with the same songs
of a lifetime
sad
slow
honey thick
things
that spread
evenly over everything
then,
The Three Sisters
wild
even
when silent.
there were books
everywhere
and papers
full of poems by the oldest,
drawings from the other two.
cluttered in corners
were
wrinkled piles of clothes
and dolls
(even
when
they stopped
being girls).
the walls
wore
crooked picture frames
full of their three faces
smiling big.
there were pets
sometimes a dog
sometimes a cat
sometimes a rabbit
or turtle
or pigeon
once for an hour
a baby possum
until the mother
made the second daughter
go out into the yard and
smash it with a brick
- at night
the tiny house
became
jail cell
and
there were
shouting matches
and riots
and everyone
pushed
and pushed
until the walls
threatened to burst
- but they never did
not visibly.
and
the mother
would return
to the kitchen
and the father
would leave
and come back with
more drink
and the three sisters
would
laugh
loud
over the music
over the things
everyone fought about
but never spoke about
they would laugh
their best
loud wild laughs
until the mother
would threaten
to come out of the kitchen
with a sandal
and the father would sigh
calling them
Terremotos
Earthquakes.
and they were.
in that tiny house.
they shook
it good
until,
you couldn’t tell
if things
were the way
they were
from disaster
or
just because
they
liked it
exactly
that way
