on the floor of our childhood bedrooms tonight

these rooms do not exist. we have since 
stripped the walls. moved into the attic
& the basement & the closet. we do not live
where we used to. but tonight, i am having
a seance. we are holding hands. two brothers 
& the husks of corn. the open windows.
an emptied house. i think of the darknesses
we shared. how, for years, you were the one
i would wake up when i was alone in 
the middle of the night. me, the older brother
who should have never been afraid. we told
terror stories. all of them were about our father.
the forest of my room. the ocean of yours.
we held our breath. swam deeper. found the
angler fish. her light pulling us back to sleep.
i lay down. see the sky open. the same clouds
that have always roosted above me. i ask you,
"where should we take this place." there are 
no burials for rooms. for the times they held.
our parents are asleep. our parents are ghost walking
upside down on the ceiling. our parents
do not recognize us in the dark. you are me
& i am you. our faces like clay. i reach for yours/mine.
there is always the journey back. the citrus 
of the coming sun. i ask you, "how should
we keep each other?" you do not know
& the night is ending. the stars are returning
to the bag of sugar next to the coffee machine.
i want to ask you if you think this place
we've been was holy or at least sacred. &, if so,
were we the only ones who saw it? the return
of a crooked closet door. my ribs on the carpet.
the stain from a nail polish sleep over. 
sometimes we were both girls. sometimes
we were both boys. other times, we slid
back into our skin. me the top bunk
& you the bottom. the mice ate our sunflower
seed offerings. the moon cracked open wide.