Cleft

crushed under the yoke of our heirloom
settee, dresser, & cane chair from the old
house. we were good colts and mules,
wagging our horsetails in the harmattan
& so tired that ghost exhaled from our
lungs. our skin pale from this trade-
wind. there was no time to make feast.
instead, we warmed the house with our
visible breath, mist against the blade of
Louvre. father hung his father on the
walls, sneaked the dead back with him.
one portrait for each corner/stone, to
bait the ghosts we’d raked away with
our hooves. it was too early for the
walls, but there they were, split like
a lip, spilled, yet reluctant, as a secret.
the crack spoke of no light, led no-
where to the gold, except the grumpy
scorpions & soldier ants who attacked
our small cots & mats every night. i am
sealing the walls with a spiderweb—
in this poem for the sun to nest in.
a dwelling in a dwelling. father keeps
the crack open for the black egret—the
animal spirit of the dead—for the son
who has nowhere to rest his head, the
fox of a shadow. the crack opens with
time, as if it had more to say with every
passing year, a toothless trap gaping at
bodies other than ours.