Poetry by Rachel Mallino •
Photography by Sunny Williams
 Basement
I balance on adolescent knees down steps, anxious to see player-piano keys prance on their own. I imagine the dead sit bare-boned on the
bench, unaware
when the dirt piled on that it would pull up again. No seeds nested in their rib-cage,
dreams of turning into planting pots
uprooted when the house
was erected. Still, we believe
we can live there, earth soaked
and hiding where echoes
drive the music out.
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