Leadville
there is a corner where I choose to sleep where the low ceiling slants and meets above the supports
the walls are porous, I hear your pulse beat and feel the moisture gather about your hands
I never see you descend into the ground, I can only imagine the stillness of the tunnels, the lack of sound
commentary:
don't stay too long in Leadville, move on to the campfire where we huddled together like some ancient tribe learning the power of stories to stave away the night
tell the story again but this time remember that it is only another town where the blood drying on the rocks is your own
grandfather
the crossbeam creaks when grandmother cries, the floorboards muffle the drunken rage of her husband
she rocks steadily above him in the master bedroom with two generations of boys in her lap