The Door to the Basement

The Door to the Basement

Breath stinking of cold espresso shots to hide the vodka, only to be given away by the rasp of a voice that’s shouted too loud, too long, striving to be right. Grass has grown into hay and infiltrated the wheel wells of the Airstream; winter has dulled the stainless like the pot you inherited from your mother that you couldn’t toss when you cleaned out her things. Pine needles in October line the road like a copper rug -- the 70’s shag where your brother broke your arm Indian wrestling, but you didn’t tell...where he kissed you, and you didn’t tell.