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THERE IS A HOUSE IN THE BONE, with a brokenA sheet of newspaper covers the hole, secured around the edges with thick pieces of duct tape The siding on the house sags like old flesh, holding up a roof that looks as if it’s bearing the world’s burdens

I live in this house with my mother Under the rain, under the oppression, in the roo house Because, if you let it, this house will devour you, like it did my mother Like it tries to devour me

“Margo, bring me the washcloth”

My name followed by a command

I do You can barely call it a washcloth It’s just an old rag, smoothed over by too s it has scrubbed She takes it froant, nails painted black and chipped along the edges She hly I flinch and look away, offering her et in this house—the aversion of eyes There are always people— around the doors and hallways They leer, and, if you give theive them the chance I don’t

My mother steps out of the bath and takes the towel from my hand The house smells like mold and rot, but for an hour after she takes a bath, it smells of her bath salts

“Margo, hand me my robe”

My name followed by a command

She hates taking baths alone She told me her mother tried to drown her in the bathtub when she was a child It still scares her So in her sleep, Noincident, htmare, she calls it By the tirandmother had died of a hter the house—the eating house

She looks at herself in the , filmy to the touch It is my job to launder it twice a week I do so with care, as it is her most prized possession My mother is beautiful in the same way that a storm is beautiful She is wild and destructive, and in the ht to destroy We both admire her reflection for a few ers over her face, checking for flaws This is herShe takes out the little tubs of crea the chipped sink One at a time, she dabs them around her eyes and mouth

“Margo,” she says I wait for the co at irl You could at least lose the weight What you don’t have in the face, you can have in the body”

So I can sell it like you do?

“I’ll try, Mama”

Submission That’s my job