I hammer and turn, and everything I touch goes glass.
A mountain made of houses, all the walls and doors.
You don’t know what to say.
My mother watches. My father watches.
Where else would you go?
Someone imagines climbing through a window.
A whole forest of parents, a brickyard of parents.
I can’t, I say. I can’t.
Whispers: lie down with the baby. Map the baby. Build the baby.
I find sharp edges. I make sharp edges.
You wrap up in arms.
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