At Grandma’s house


At Grandma’s house


there’s a basement with a beaten sofa.

You can escape there by descending

an elbow of warped wooden stairs that

corner their way around the back of

the house from the side-deck. No-one


will see us leave. Take an open bottle

of anything brown from the cabinet.

We’ll refill it later with some cold tea,

maybe stale root beer and water. I’ve

got this little bag of grass, enough to


roll a slim one. We’ll be totally invisible

down there, getting high, beyond the wash

of their blunted adult voices. Don’t you

think they sound like they’re underwater,

like they’re the ones already underground?


first published in The Homestead Review, 2016


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