Young Relics by Emma Hine

Young Relics

They broke into houses,

my sisters. The empty ones,

just built, where nobody had yet

tried to sleep. Little mounds

of sawdust still in the corners,

no floorboards loose.

I imagine them being the way

I’ve seen them be with horses,

hands gentle on the walls—after all,

a house must learn to hold a family

with all its quivering systems

of energy and grief. I once saw Sierra

with a colt that wasn’t ready

to be ridden. She stood in the stall

and talked until his heart rate slowed.

All through our neighborhood

new houses were dark and panicking.

Enter sisters.

Bringing comfort where it wasn’t

supposed to be, no key for entry,

no light allowed, just a ritual gift

for the rooms alone to remember:

hands on their painted flanks.

Voices in the eaves.