Words Build Homes Inside My Head

by Loren Kleinman

A family lives here:
husband and wife,
two boys and a girl,
and a dog,
and a cat by the fireplace,
and a man in a face mask,
and a guy beating his head against the wall.

Two boys become butterflies
and the girl, a butch lesbian from Brooklyn
slicks back her hair
with a pencil comb.

The windows become a head,
the wooden frame, a rubber band
that shoots me like a bullet
inside the house
where I’m splayed on the dining room table
my feet against a chopping block.

Out of nowhere, a dragon
burns the house down,
but keeps me cool under his wing.

The sun comes out.

The house is burnt to a crisp
and I look away,

down the block paved with commas
and periods and lots of semi colons,
a couple of vowels perched on trees.

The words come together,
I can almost see them.


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