My mother cried for eleven minutes.
I counted.
I wrote down:
the stain shaped like Ohio
Mrs. Alvarez puts her bin out Tuesday
four hair ties
I did not write down
my mother.
DAY TWELVE
Shoes off beyond the second beam.
No standing near the vent after six.
Library voices.
We pull the ladder up
behind us.
My brother says the notebook is stupid.
He asks for the pencil.
I say no.
DAY THIRTEEN
My father runs an extension cord
through the garage.
We eat sitting down now.
Dinner takes forty minutes.
Nobody gets up when they’re finished.
My brother practices whistling
without sound.
DAY FOURTEEN
Milo looks at the attic window.
I count to six.
My mother moves the CHRISTMAS box.
She checks the curtain pins.
DAY FIFTEEN
DAY SIXTEEN
A siren.
My father presses his ear
to the floorboards.
My mother holds her cup
halfway to her mouth.
I put the notebook
under my shirt.
It turns at the corner.
No one touches the ladder.
DAY EIGHTEEN
I erase Milo’s name.
I write M.
DAY NINETEEN
The blue hair tie snaps.
I wrap it around the pencil.
DAY TWENTY-ONE
My mother cries.
I get to nine.
Milo comes into our yard.
He leaves his stick
under the window.
My brother whistles one note.
My father catches his wrist
before the second.
Someone steps on the extension cord
in the garage.
The ladder moves.
My father isn’t touching it.
I have three hair ties left.
The broken blue one
is wrapped around the pencil.