Open this house to darkness. We shall have a dance floor. I go to answer the phone but the cord is cut. I cup my hands around my face and press it to the window. We have been trying to contact you. This house comes apart in pieces. I have thought little about where I left the fragments. A room with nothing in it but a stone that floats like something that has no right to. A room with no fruit. A room with no windows, some bodies, a view. This house is at the bottom of a frozen lake. It’s the naked one on the beach: you can’t miss it. The vultures form a circle, the music bubbles.
-- Austin Rodenbiker received his MFA in creative writing from the New Writers Project and holds an MA in gender studies from UT Austin. His recent poetry appears in smokingglue gun, Narrative, and fields, among other zines and broadsides. He lives and writes in Austin, TX.