We are sitting in a circle around a fire and it's July,
My sister had a secret room. A secret room inside. Inside the house. The house of my parents.
We're not close,
The way the dresser rests against the wall suggests a missing boundary,
scrambled—
moved alone,
a limit, undiscovered
until after
she'd gone.
We grew up together,
We're sitting in a circle, on the beach, and it's night and it's July,
My twelve-year-old cousin drunkenly
relates
the recent history
of the first time
he fingered
a girl.
She found a way through a wall
With knowledge of space
on the other side.
A crawlspace
over the garage,
with access
from her bedroom.
She created a door
And no one knew
Not even me,
now.
A house is a sovereign,
Not meant to have extra space,
Not known for unknown doors,
Not meant to belong
to a girl.
She sells pressed sandwiches
from the back of her van.
She follows Dead concerts,
she braids hair
for money.
It's all fantasy when it comes out.
As soon as it comes out it's fantasy.
We're not close, we grew up together,
My sister, a secret.
A secret door. Inside. Inside the house. The house of my parents.