The house is half-
collapsed; the kitchen,
coat closet, and a section
of the front parlor are all lost.
The sofa from which a family
watched their analog television
(also somewhere down in the hole)
balances on the edge of deep purple
shag carpeting. Some surviving family
portraits hang askew on floral wallpaper.
A picture taken at an unhappy reunion fell
down— so too a faded wedding photograph
of unsmiling ancestors and some staged shot
capturing a son’s soccer team. Dawn sunlight
exposes a swath of red wine-stained rug. A door
swings stoically on a copper hinge. An on-looking
child giggles and tells his mother the house is waving
at him, and he raises his hands in exultant recognition.
His mother doesn’t notice; she gapes in growing shock
down into the ever-deepening hole. She can discern the
shape of a ’97 Buick, a nightstand, and a refrigerator with
its door open. From the door, eggs, tomatoes, lettuce, onions,
a milk carton, sour cream, whipped cream, leftover pizza, and
beer, are pouring out like the blood and entrails of a gouged pig.
Originally appeared in Off the Coast, 2015