When you come home,
you find gaps that weren’t there,
fruit underneath the floorboards,
stink bugs in the wood grain.

You walk up the stairs
three times with your eyes closed
and your fist in your mouth,
blood on the railing.

An act of service,
you shave your father’s head,
pick cat fur off the sofa,
put away the dishes wrong. 

You wonder
if you’ve really been here before
in your entire life, or if it’s all
someone else’s memories. 

In the backyard, 
you visit the bees, you rattle
their hive and shake some free,
they float like traces.

Your father serves you
a simple dinner, a glass of wine
and you cry for his broken hands,
break your own beneath the table

Every night,
you shower until you feel full,
wrap yourself in a stranger’s robe
of moth’s wings and dust motes

When you come home,
you look at the spaces that have
grown between the floorboards
widening like a moon song. 

LIOR TORENBERG is a young Israeli-American writer living and working in New York City. She has had pieces published in Boston College’s literary journal Stylus and was the recipient of a study grant in 2016 for her 111,400-word psychological thriller Angelica. She also received the 1st Place Prize in Bridges Together’s intergenerational story competition. When she’s not writing, Lior can be found overpaying for coffee and failing to complete the New York Times crossword. She can be found on Twitter here.