There’s a home on Hansen,
with hedges who hide the hideous
fiend that contained the same
four walls a child couldn’t even love.
We are not so nuclear, combusting like
stacked C4 when there is no Father—
the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth.
Our Father, whose eyes loved to watch.
Choirs of angels plead to the heavens
why they left their dust in these walls,
and how these crimson steps
could scream bloody murder louder than her.
If I knew their secrets I’d have to tell,
and that’s the last thing I want to do.
This street isn’t too forgiving,
I guess I’ll find out someday.
Briana Wilson is a Nashville-based student and writer currently attending Tennessee State University. With a major in English and a minor in French, her post-graduation plans consist of higher education and extensive traveling amidst teaching children and writing. Her writing focuses on the possibilities of interpretations in language and personal experience and aims to explore class, gender, and race.