By C. L. Liedekev
In the end, it’s the house that suffers, the oak floor, built of burnt barn ruin, of my grandfather’s hands holding the house in his sweat and swears every Sunday, still wearing his church suit pants swung low, dragging the dry survivors through the back door, in mock Christ walk, deeds driven as dirty feet rest in splinters, soft in ache, in cast gout. Shirts slips across forehead, stains the white, he summons the fridge open, alights spells along the glass potion, cold goes into clear mind, drops distance deep in the generic pull, the memory of the gunner, his brown hair blowing in the gape across body of the bomber. His bottom half blown lose like a bottle broke open, edges ragged and wet and unforgettable.
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