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.