We share an attic room. In the corner is an old double bed
that smells and sags on one side. My side. Late at night I hear my
heart beat. Loud. So loud he will hear it. He will think my heart
is calling him and come up the attic stairs. His footsteps are heavy.
He smells of old spice and cherry tobacco. My eyes shut tight. I
know he is there. I feel his weight. Never on my side. Always on
the side where she sleeps. When the bed-springs sing their sad song
I fly away. Up to the ceiling. My sister is already there. Together
we hold hands. Looking down we see our bodies. We are not moving.
We are as still as the dead.
the backyard swing