There’s a growing crack in the back wall
of our centuries-old family house
through which the cold air outside has never entered
The air inside has always been warm
There’s also a cabinet our forefathers passed down
with carvings of the moths outside
The ones that shape the moon with their whirring
and stop time from passing
Before he lost his mind
one relative drew maps
showing where the house’s windows
were easiest to break
Another relative disappeared
after claiming to know
why our vizsla hasn’t died
after centuries in human years
They searched for this relative for weeks
checking every corner of the house each morning
while the dog would remain soundly asleep
in his spot beneath the kitchen table
I crawled down there to join him one morning
and the dust on his copper coat made me sneeze
so violently that the back of my head
bucked the table
I remembered something I had forgotten
Not thinking she had woken me
my missing grandmother kissed my head
and crept through the house in the dark
The vizsla waited by the growing crack in the back wall
He showed her an easy way to sneak out
into the cool air and peaceful night
He snuck back in through the crack before dawn
covered in moth dust from outside time