By REBECCA BAUMANN

“untitled,” watercolor, by Cuyler McDonald. Image courtesy of author.

Ten 

We claw-dance between the folding walls. 

 “Are we sinking?” I ask. 

 Our backs flatten into herringbone patterns against the floorboards. Oil from our noses stains the adobe ceiling. 

“We’re doing the boogie!” he says. 

He waggles a finger that can no longer stretch up. I laugh-cry. I listen to the house moan.  “Do you hear me creaking?” 

My ribcage smushes into a desert plateau. 

“It’s not us. It’s only the wooden boards, I’m sure,” he says.