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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