The Cracked House

 

She keeps to herself in school.

No friends,

No enemies.

She wears the same clothes

Week, after, week.

And she looks like she hasn’t showered

In months.

She comes from the cracked house.

It’s smell lingers on her skin.

She had two brothers;

One in prison,

The other dead.

They both found more comfort

In chaos,

Than they did in the cracked house.

Her sister drinks

From a brown paper bag

When she thinks no one’s watching.

Her sobriety as unreachable

As the realm of unanswered prayers.

The baby sleeps in a pile of old clothes,

Innocence like his never lasts,

Not in the cracked house.

She sees things she shouldn’t,

Knows what she can never tell.

For who would believe

A child from the cracked house.

-Kathryn Loden