The cat sits like a loaf of sourdough in the living
room. Each night, we laugh across the sky as if
signaling mutual exile. Another tuck beneath
dusk, and we are planting the wind. Our
grandparents huddled together in french.
Scrawling the chalkboard with promises to speak
English. On the bayou, houseboats remind you of
the missing. I remember snippets inside my body
of storm. Maelstrom as I sat outside of the
casino. From here, the pain of home disappears.
What calls out is something torn.