by Eleanore Shorey
Before I was born
my parents gutted homes:
Tudors, early Colonials, and cottages
whose porch rails hung together like crocodile teeth.
They razed kitchens with rotted counters, peeled yards
of bleached flowers from a nursery, wound cloth
around each hand to break panes from their lead casings.
Dust spun through the air,
widened the chasm between their bodies
stiff in the sunlight.
Eleanor Shorey is a Kent State University undergraduate student. Her work has appeared in Folio and Scripta, and she is the 2011 recipient of the Anna Ulen Engleman writing award. She lives in Cleveland, Ohio, with her boyfriend and dog.