This isn’t the house.

 

This isn’t the house I grew up in.
We’re both set in our ways.
I’ve walked on trails that pass uncomfortably close to trees.
I’ve walked on trails that humans don’t use.
I found the head of an animal with fur still on.
This isn’t the house I grew up in.
We’ve both gone our own ways.
I spooked a grouse and set him running.
I found the house of an animal with fur still on.
I walked past the feathers of the caught grouse, tumbled.
She’s gone to feed the fox.
This isn’t the head I grew up in.
I walked past feathers, loose, and lasting after everything alive has left.

 

Past/oral by Brenda Whiteway

 

Unregulated Waste Management Facility

 

Listen, all kids love
to play at the dump.

I have no sister, but
the trash is flesh to me.

We all have normal dreams
of empty roll-on deodorant.

I have no brother, yet
I’m wearing cast-off shoes.

Kids like it. It’s
a chicken-bone graveyard.

Each one could be
the finger-joint of the gone twin.

 

Listen to Dawn Macdonald read “This isn’t the house.” and “Unregulated Waste Management Facility.”