The wind is a grand hall of records.
In the recipe box above the refrigerator,
the deathbed photos of four generations —
somewhere, their hands have turned
to prime numbers. Somewhere,
a voice that smells like a well bucket
has arranged the vowels of my name
like three glass pill bottles. Mother of wet rope
and cordwood, Father with your pant-cuffs
of smoke, I feel myself spinning back
to the first hour of the universe
to rest within a singular shade of carbon.