at age four
my younger brother dressed,
in different shades of green.
laying on his stomach amongst wet lawn.
its stains transferred transparently
as a mark of irrelevancy.

mother checks everything twice,
three times,
before leaving the house,
that has never burnt down,
and never could.

father lives as half his age,
in the backyard,
underneath a mound
of damaged tin sheets.
injecting himself with something
that will never be uttered -
“not under this roof”.

at age twenty
in the house on a hill,
alone on the kitchen bench,
with two bare feet in the sink.
i peer out for
that naked yellow hue.
i grasp at it until it becomes tangible.
the tangerine dust in my throat.
the impossibility of it.