Sarah Anne Cox & Elizabeth Treadwell & Yedda Morrison

dream of the house that was

the breath that was hers was saved in the plastic floating ring
poolside the mixing of cold and hot
I’m not sure there was ever much point in speaking
here is the house with all its timber
split unmatched in futures a solid hall where the horses
were fed what was sick had died and so the
house would soon follow

the grave ranch home
cheerful green lowpile
slides down the stairs
incumbent upon whom
the snapping turtle
we did bury that house
with all its former ashes

circumference and satellite
when you place yourself in position
you get lost
calibrate the field kick
the weight ball down
sheets of rain
where were you last seen

been a second prince following your name, a little girl sticking treats into
doodle by the hillside, looking for the unsure crucial mothers farhouse with
all its spilt unmatched stereowishes so soon the following week sister
dream, all storage chambers, like dynamite

blowing
the house pivoting dumping out its contents
the childone pulled through the window elbows knees rubbing the motherone
pulling dreaming of letting go one the sweaty palm down under deadwood
rosebush she secretly wanting to falling other houses, those of friends
sliding down too reaching the road and blowing—
wallpaper blooming under streetlights one car wedged beside the unmade bed
the body sleeping there untended one floating off
in all its former ashes

toward the side split nimble jack
irreparable damage to inner foundations
luck and hope
regarding the house still breathing
unloaded the kit bag sank into her skin

pouring in
another language, being teaching
the youngest to read, and
all the birds
this morning

keening in the mirror entree

thought to be an immune reaction
slip ink dousing the broken tooth
memorybridge rickets
not wanting the scurrying off but
scurring completing the disasterangle
cankerpot
bubble

there were those that feared to leave and those who absolutely left
she was the isolated domino
normalcy was restored within the following “and then I died inside”
if actions refuse to bump against
if every fallen beam is its own peculiar event

grateful for the nuance
one would suppose
and who said what where
the mind of it
to imitate the small oceans

and in imitating
becoming briefly
ones own particular event
aiming the hobbyhorse
towards the greenest window
holding one’s breath

under factions held by rank and canker
instead of freeing them, the explosion
suppresses the group divide weakens resolve
of the less fortunate for the less enthusiastic
untranslated curses form the roadway