My father built a dome out of red wet clay.
He’d scoop and bend, packing earth
atop earth until cool morning met
the day’s shortest shadow.

He was erecting a city.
He was evading the Big Bad.
He was awaiting the fateful smudge
of waterfowl across the winter sky.

It wasn’t until my mother arrived,
barefoot, to kiss him without rush
or strangeness, that he knew
he’d been building it for her.

As he pulled away, gentle
to breathe, to regard her,
she doused the place in chili powder
and struck a match against the stucco wall.

At the center of the smite and rubble, they stood—
two tall pieces of smooth, black glass.

 

 

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Chloe Hollowell Hooks is a writer from Austin, Texas. Her work has appeared in Gulf Coast, Red Mud Review, and Duke Magazine, among others. She received her MFA from Columbia. www.chloehollowellhooks.com

 

 

 

Photo by Hannah McBride on Unsplash