Confused, the sofa and hutch face each other in the driveway, next to the chainsaw and tractor. Hanging on a rack outside the garage door, one purple, fuzzy bathrobe waves nervously in the wind. Nobody notices how loud the curling iron, sitting on the lazy-susan, reflects the morning sun. Both arms full of bedsheet and coffee mugs, a mother scolds her daughter for touching the scooter, waiting patiently by the box of Christmas decorations. Just sold and carried to someone’s t

After the hallways are quiet and whoever is shouting outside dies down— I might, late one night, after throwing away my nutshells, when the moon is an empty, white hole and my room is dark, apart from the seat of pale, blue light where my naked, ball-shaped-body sits aglow in the window between the refrigerator & bathroom door— heels against buttcheeks on the cool, wood floor and arms around knees in the shape I was before being born—I might hum & forget to breathe until I wh

Snow covers property that lives outside as mold covers our food with soft, white hair and ice preserves our dead-town, traffic-wide as fungus that feeds on fields of highway air. Giant sheets of snow heaped over hills & parking lots as if each colossal animal our children made out of clouds molted its skin or were ripped through the ground, either way—our families freeze where something massive rots. By Joshua Wren