The Beautiful Hunt

I hear your hands against the door.
I will write about self-enclosure.

My brother is playing guitar
in the attic with invisible strings;

the night becomes
a terrible universe.

My father reads his Bible
breaking mythical ground;

the extinction of the body
is as inevitable as struggle.

The sound of wolves clawing
at the door; I write about

the language of death, how
beautifully it hunts for silence.

There are windows to every soul;
I pass through mine while my mother

waits barefoot in the kitchen
for the bread to rise.