They slide by a boy outside
the large cardboard box
on the basement floor
where he hides
rolled into himself
away from voices
he pretends not to hear,
and sit outside the attic closet
where he crouches
behind mothballed clothing,
empty picture frames,
vases of dried plants
stored from a time
he cannot quite recall,
and hover over
his driven hair
as man he descends
the midnight staircase
to wander aimlessly
through silent rooms
more vacant than fear
— those unspeakable words
remembered only as runes
on the walls of caverns
he traveled in utero,
and the screams as he burst
into the light
Shhh!
They’re about the mother