Where we were, is where, people, in this wooded, hole-in-the-wall place, go to live in the made from dirt dirt. Town, isn’t far from here. But, it isn’t close.
People, can’t hear what it is you’re saying, in this place. Is what I’m saying.
Where is it, is what Jane, once here, asked of this place. She placed a palm on my jeans.
I said, Jane.
I said, This, is where it is. And with this hand—see it—waved over the made from dirt dirt.
After Papa led us to where he lives by our hands.
Jane and Clara, got down.
On their knees. And reached, way down.
The dirt—didn’t look like dirt, when they reached their hands inside.
When, up, the dirt went, in their girl lips. This night I brought Jane and Clara to Papa’s house from roads that curl like curly-cue’s and people don’t live in the large houses set way back in the woods.
Her lips, puckered up, and it, lifting, like this. Is what stands out.
When I took from my pocket, the knife Papa gave me.
Like his Papa. Like his Papa before him.
And lifted it, like this.
They were, not where they were. Jane and Clara. They were, where a person, not sure if they’re looking through the eyes of a phone, or their own—decide, not to decide. They were where, neither planted in a wooded, hole-in-the-wall place, nor anchored in the air you can’t breathe, rainbows whisper in their bellies, ripple their insides like a prayer.
Look up, I said.