If venetian blinds hung crooked,
or dishes lay piled in the sink,
if empty shoes sat strewn around the floor,
mother would say
Place looks like a niggershack.
It wasn’t, of course. It was ourshack.
Catholicshack. Polackshack.
Leather-strap-to-the-thighshack. Bigotshack.
Ventriloquist of doom, her voice
still follows me through unkempt rooms,
and I have to bite my wooden tongue
to silence her in the ground
where satin must sag sloppily now
inside her casketshack.
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