Empty hallways, closed doors.
My parents are here. Aren’t they?
Stairs leading down to vacant living room and lonely dining room table
soft coils of hair wrapped in towel on my head
water collecting at my feet
birds nesting in my fireplace
eggs breaking outside making puddles of gold slime.
Vultures gathering and praying.
Owl giving a benediction.
Where are they?
The pops popping,
the corn burning under the scorching
sun rumbling rolling thundering in clear blue skies.
Little girl picking up a black feather on the sidewalk,
the cement hissing under her feet.
Lifting it toward me in silence with large blank eyes, she says—
“They’re here.”
