An army
in flower-print
dresses
resides in our backyard
on a guilty clothesline.

Their bloated bodies
float in the water
of the wind.

In our tiny gestures, we tell potential buyers
that we had two beautiful daughters
who left their clothes everywhere,
and we have finally killed
them.

In small voices
they sing for justice
on the clothesline.

But the dresses
are our own childishness,
and not our fake childrens'.

And we tell our buyers these things,
because we want to leave this place,
but on our own terms.