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.
Collage art © Valentina Cozzi. All rights reserved. 
