Home (i)

Home smelled of
rotten wood, tender but
decaying. And with
life perishing, we
grasped at the sticks
frail and failing

Home felt the
echo of hands reaching for
fragile places. And with a loud
crashing of voices, it
constructed a yoke
for the young


Home, the noose
and the knuckle


Home, the awful
putrid place

And,
Mother dishonest through her teeth