yellow is quiet. all thigh and heart bone, a vigil to my hands extended, wraps a ribbon from heel to palm. yellow of a tripped circuit’s point on a map as an infallible, distant hue. a sunset shade. glim radiation at the center of a mass, a heated room, too warm, thus quiet. shelter from your mothers orange gasp, her flesh howl fluid in the night. she reads your Bible father like an outlet in a busy scene. a nothing, he is. a storm unannounced, wanted. once in your memory his eyes all fishbowl vision, a reading of Othello in dramatic form. stay hush, says your mother. his shoulders enter the room, heavy sag from barley, a cloud of tobacco and oak, of pure oil, slick and poison. you have a desk now. you can cross your legs and react all the same under the weight of a heavy wooden board that holds your head. your father says, do not close the goddamn door, but more than keeping it open you feel its loud swing, rough-lined draft of kitchen glances, “is he alright”, “no he hates that man”, “be quiet save he hear.” you’d come home to bear tracks if you’d come home. jagged paw outlined in wind-eroded snow. your father screams to tree gaps for a hunt, you tell people. and your mother is a flesh howl. the empty feed bowl for the horse at dusk. nature’s greedy reckoning with the sun. all gray, all shaded black. your traced expanse, door-to-door: it’s showing. coffee to the brim, your deep growl a husk of past — no maybe future — tense. like the ache of muscle. your elbow curve too differential, rest your knees. thumbtacked versions of your line of thought, he the center. shoulder man. a free oak — no maybe maple — fallen as a shrine. branches align. retraced draft of kitchen glances, “is he alright?”; your mother howls.