Him, their father, sweeping his feet on the expanse, the forest, the trees. His father, the tree. Her father, nails in boards. His hands, his knuckles, this father, carrying it full in one hand and the axe in the other. Their father, the blade.
And him, the brother, the son, the boy-man who had stood at her doorway and looked, watching her sleep until she wasn't, seeing his mother, the girl who couldn't be his mother, the girl who could be a new mother. Fathers and sons, fathers and sons.
So his sister, the daughter, the girl, up from the sheets but weaker, less muscled, invisible, giving up. Her going no, no, no, to him, taut and wrapped in yes, yes, yes. The ceiling paint thick, the walls stacks of timber, logs. Fallen forests out her window, falling trees, underneath the open space and into dusk, grey-green clouds.
Her, swollen and then gushing, forthcoming, her, this sister. A father and an axe. Her father, the rectifying. His father, his father, his father. Strangled fists, pushing fingers, the sapling pink belly. Kicking screaming moving. Not moving. Everything undone and adjusted, slate wiped, clean and becoming over again, sisters out of mothers, this sister out of mother, him, him, her. Nothing.