Liz McGehee 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.