by Jerrod Schwarz
From Fall 2017
When I listen to you, everything in a house becomes intentional. The old lampshades in the closet, laminate floor rippling in winter, holes from someone else’s picture frames. You make houses look like the limestone that grows around curled up fossils: I’m cutting asparagus in someone’s skull, I’m watching TV in the cave of a pelvis. The only things I remember from my father’s first house are mahogany. A highchair, a bunk bed, a coat hanger I inherited; its feet are loose, and its brass fingers are the color of an ordinary stone.