Failure says his ancestors / have owned that property for years. / If you watch it, he says, you can see / their ideas moving beneath it
It must have looked soft to her. That soft. Blacker still, / in Jesus-stained light. Mother gray in fluorescent light, / shaking chopped onions and garlic into the sweating pot.
An unsmashed window. It arrived / cumbersome and clear. My father stumbling under its weight: / the veins of his forehead like lightning as the house shook / from its last silence.