We live in a house with creaking floorboards.
We lose ourselves between the cracks and crevices. Most days,
we float about these halls and thresholds as currents caught in the unforgiving cyclones of spawning fish—our voices broken, weakened, and yet, loud—
never making it upstream— only becoming forever trapped, assaulted in, about, and by the falls cascading
from lofty ledges like waves stampeding to their deaths.
