the child grows up and learns the word for what was done to her
the marks she gouged into the wood of the window-frame are found
the tongue that boiled for hours in the pot has softened
the pale nubs on the underside are stripped away
the wound is white and seamed where blade met skin
the sheets are bleached and hanging on the line
the ghosts are dead that have no place to go
the cabinet that smells of mothballs gives up
the letter that piece by piece retrieves the history
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.