still building (i – vii)       i. this hall is enough it begins and it timelines that trail countered footsteps, short sleepless breaths nights are drawn into it but for now morning calls he stares down, never comes upstairs anymore the sideways glance of sun who says, sister I make sure I step on each patch of carpet so non of them feel bad she traces lines wonders how he knew where to cut                         back against closet that tells tightlipped                         christmas mornings they’d sit and send him in first this hall is enough to convince her still move through it breath heavy with the weight of walls     ii. the first room thinks in past tense she cradles whispered worries they come in chronology but it was mine first before beds answered questions about where we stand I would lay down in the big back room and listen sleep cared enough to come back we let distance night and morning carry constants promise you’ll write on time alone   thinks of fires, doors closed to lists that run like tears the tracts against plush carpet they both clench teeth at night worried through drawers that whistle when you open them the window where you saw your family change   three becomes four years in this room are the elders     (switch beds like secrets and try not to lose an eyebrow in the exchange)     iii. Jeff’s old                                             he forgot to fill   punched holes                                  the other half   to hold together                                ideals, agreements and   posted messages                              his sister sleeps   patient for answers                          wants room   a little air                                           to keep things from   being breathed back                         her face   looks like                                           his   concerns                                             work   cut                                                       out   for them     iv. upstairs steals anxious times feet past ten o’clock she tells us not to tell her and the beat made in conversation promised palpitation hear you go     v. kitsch in writes: Then, with a wave goodbye, our oilcloth is wiped clean and the dinner table becomes an academic base. homes work set by tables four spots, a wobbly chair dad makes dinner, table, and art on walls and mom makes conversation, a constant click of magnets closing stubborn cupboard doors that stringed embrace is apron, a gramma and she watches stains, makes the smell of cookies that come from comfort, if not always from mom   makes sense: the books we learned to read from now framed her past now plastic, red   kids critical of housewife, her ungendered chores wait for mom by window watch the weight of basil leaves in dad’s pot of sauce a yellow century, the loudest telephone   orders us: more than microwaves learn to talk kitchen clatter                         the latter in linoleum     vi. bath in the day dad made stories of flying architects, tricked lights and made inch-thick stages of tops of doors now fans hot air of two adults who wash too much   she lies in her girl’s fallen worries of growing tangled and blond   at once Jeff’s hair was longer than mine we mirror a past image of memories so combed they became clichéd drawer dollars smoothed products and bottles   echo hurry steam says just try and see yourself through me     vii. small hall holds face on climbing entryways sliding smiles so lean back years and except please doors still change us paint and sighs but knobs know no one holds on       - Emily Fedoruk