July 04, 2005 | 9:30 p.m.
break my body, hold my bones.

my father never asks where i’ve been sleeping, just welcomes my skin since it brings in enough red sin and sun to heat the walls of our house into those of a home. and now mother, she comes in bunches of bone-colored butterflies hovering above our bare feet, tented in the crab grass, tipied beneath the sheets.