Brown feet on brown steps
preserve cadence
carved in woodgrain
resounding echoes
trapping years in space
like spirals inside a trunk or
molten wax taking new shape.
My father’s feet drag
two beats behind
my mother’s and mine.
My brother’s feet clamor
toes cacophonous,
a broken wind chime
sails and clappers erupting
aggressive against the grain.
My sister’s glide, delicate,
the measured hollow thrum
of a ballerina masquerading
on solid ground.
We dance to color the floor
in a uniform palette.
Hues of gray and magenta
stain the carpets with grief for the living.
We dance behind closed doors
Hues of mandarin and indigo
bursting across cold dining room chairs.
Days unravel
birthing weeks
feeding months
housing years
and we’re still dancing.
Petty foreigners leaping
across the ground on shameless brown toes.
When Like calls to Like,
we can’t pick up the phone.
The Ether 
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