Poem starting with the first sentence of “Mother of Wood” by Tiana Nobile Our Battered Walls are Caving In When did you become a house? Splinters poke my eyelids when I look too closely at what we’ve built. Architectural ruin: damp and molding, pillars leaning, will you crumble with me in the night? I am lost in your attic with all these broken lightbulbs I keep finding on your floors. When fear grips me I crawl into your air vents to sync our breaths, but the dust makes me sick. I am making you sick. Wallpaper peeling, your edges curling in my effort to keep warm. I split lips on cracked mugs but I will remain here. Every morning I try to fix the blinds; each evening I burn away our candle supply.
