Hot pig summer

Straw goes up fast. That was the whole appeal: a house by Thursday, bright as sugar, warm if the weather held. I built a few. Sticks, too. Whole subdivisions of almost. The wolf they warn you about huffs. The one that comes just breathes. January. Flat down here, gray with a grain to it like unsanded wood. For weeks I sat and watched my hands reach for the small bright nothing. Animals that used to be mine. Some days nothing drains the chest but mortar. One brick. Then one. Straw, it turns out, is what the ground eats. The pile out back runs hot all winter, breaking what I gave it down to black. Down here the light is just light. An apple is loud. The boy sleeps on my chest, heavier than he weighs. The pile keeps burning. Let it have every house I built by Thursday.