Close the door, is what I whispered, like this, to the girls as they stepped out of the bed of my big brown truck, tonight, this night of which we’re talking. This night, I brought Jane and Clara to Papa’s house.
Roads made of dirt that curl like curly-cues where people don’t live in large houses set way back in the woods, is where—from where, us, and this truck, had come.
Papa’s house sits right up on a straight, built with rock road. Peopled with people houses sit right up on roads like this, in this wooded, hole-in-the-wall place. Houses—where they sit, where a road is, relative to them, what they are made of—this is the way houses talk to us. Like they do.
They don’t say one thing.
Houses say different things, to different people. Papa’s house doesn’t say what it says to me to other people. To other people, it says, Otherness, Rock. Rainbow, and, Different.
But not me.
This is the word—Close, winding like wind through my hair, that Papa’s house says to me. Whispering, like it does, to a person like me.
Fuck yeah, We’re going to get down, is what the two naughty robbers, Jane and Clara, said looking at each other next to my big brown truck. Leaves in the air by their red puckered up cheeks swirled.
Both lifted the thing naughty girls like best to their lips.
You girls are going to get in trouble.
At this, they looked at each other and giggled. You could be sisters, I said next.
For these girls, Papa’s house, seeing it, and the other peopled with people houses. Having just been whispered to by the road. These things made the girls lick, up and down their puckered up lips, and giggle.
Let’s go inside, I said.
Finding a thing you would not think that you would find—this happens to people in this wooded hole-in-the-wall place. Like other peopled with people houses that sit right up on the road, is how Papa’s house, to other people, looks.
If I walk in Papa’s house, how I look, what you would find, walking into Papa’s house is just like how I look when I walk into houses of other people.
When from roads made of dirt that curl like curly-cue’s set way back in the woods, two girls step boots in the cab of my big brown truck, and come to Papa’s house—they might look like girls.
They might not look, these girls, to others, like dirt. They might not look like roads, or houses. Other people may not know, these things live in these girls.
Whispering, like they do.
See this pen on your desk. A pen is where I hid the thing naughty girls like best. I flicked my hand and the cap flicked from this pen. Inside was something other than a pen. Inside, a pen is not the thing that you would find. Standing. Up here, where I was standing—pen in hand, Jane, on her knees—I knew these things.
And, I tipped the pen. Where her lips and insides waited.
Then I looked, way down. Inside her puckered up lips. In her girl belly. The thing you would find was there. Swimming like a rainbow. Like a rainbow Clara rippled her hips in the bedroom of Papa’s house.
I heard my lips ask of Clara, Does she get down.
And down, Clara got.
On her hands and knees.
Come to Papa, I whispered.
Tyler Dempsey is the author of a book of poems called, “Newspaper Drumsticks.” His work appears in Heavy Feather Review, trampset, Bending Genres, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, The Daily Drunk, and the like. He is a fiction reader at X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine. Find him on Twitter @tylercdempsey.