114 King St. Home was the shining iron stove grate she threw easy as a saucer at his head, his breadwinner body hulking in the doorway. At dinner, she picked up a fork in her elegant hand and stabbed his thick forearm, the corner cupboard watching. This was our first house: apple boughs and beveled glass. He gutted the house with skill, ripped out walls and floors, exposed brick and insulation. But nothing could insulate me at thirteen, sitting on the attic's trapdoor smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and reviewing the scenes where she slaps me clean across the face, so clean it doesn't hurt till later. The sound of a slap which is a flinching from the future, that moment where everything changes, or here where it stayed the same. Wasn't I a good and dutiful daughter? Little mother keeping house, commanding my sisters out of fear. I still dream of holding you as I did not then, and wish so hard my jaw aches. You don't remember the night I laid between your beds, both of you too small for the talk downstairs. I laid on your bedroom floor and peered through the cracks, our parents and grandfathers at the kitchen table playing games like divorce and custody. They heard me and said- like I didn't know Home had collapsed, they said go back to bed go back to bed. And then Home was we five moving again, moving away from each other. 114 King St. by Nashira Dernesch NOTES: Appeared in the chapbook, It's no secret you'll feel better May 2007. |
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