by Annette C. Boehm

our house is silent, windows
boarded over, breath
held, we pried
with small hands, as spies, for a
crack
the neighbors borne from their house
limp, delivered like meat
half a pig on a man’s shoulder
the kid who always picked his nose.
the dad was big, took two
to carry, one hand trailing

we could not permit the world to be in colour
two girls in school dresses, hair undone from play
i wanted to kiss her for being
alive
with me
in the attic confine

Annette C. Boehm is a Ph.D. student at the University of Southern Mississippi. Her first chapbook is forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press (March 2012). Her poems have appeared in various small journals. She is originally from Germany.