The Oldest Story

The bigger the boom, the wider the wound. The colder the rooms in
This tomb of a house where we used to go waltzing: alone
The warmer the air, the awkward way you braid my hair. Your sweater
Thrown over the chair in the hall, where my mother first called you
Her own son, that day
The steeper the stairs, the sharp words we spoke over there. The
Protesting chin and the half-hearted glare; the bend of your wrists
As you cradle my head
You cradle my sobbing head