Long Ago, Home

Childhood, that sleepy season, hovered at the ceiling.
It fell like a silk net and we wore its colors,
wrestled soundlessly in the soft, rotting cave
where we hid from you,
handed death back and forth like a flashlight.
You were beautiful and perfect as the pills
you caught us stealing–
we gulped the air in your bureau,
left fingerprints on lemon-scented wood.
You watched us from the ironing board,
steam hissing and cool starch,
a sprinkler system arcing over thirsty lawns.