not the one I was born in. The house took
years and my father’s broad back to build. 
A truck full of tools to make and measure 
a tin roof, buckets of concrete pour and 
level the earth, cement my brother’s hands 
forever gray and small. The house is full 
of caught flies and silverfish made to ride 
shotgun in matchbox cars. The house is 
where I kissed Carolina for the first 
and last time. The house is burning 
as I write this, because I write this. 
Below the back porch, rabid fox 
bones curl inside a damp cinder 
block. I heard the dog barking, 
saw their foamy trail of blood
leading to our door. I couldn’t
get my shoes on in time. 
Every room in the house
has a gun. I shot them both.
They were dead already.

Prairie Moon Dalton is a Southern Appalachian poet born and raised in Western North Carolina. Her work has appeared in The Adroit Journal, TriQuarterly, Rattle, Sprung Formal, and elsewhere. She holds a MFA in Creative Writing from North Carolina State University.

Appears In

Cagibi Issue 25