"The Chute"by Sharon Olds When I was a kid my father built a hole down through the center of the house. It started in the upstairs closet, a black, square mouth like a well with a lid on it, it plummeted down behind the kitchen wall, and the raw pine cloaca tip of it was down in the basement where the twisted wicker basket lay on the cement floor, so when someone dropped in laundry on top of it, it would drop with the speed of sheer falling—in the kitchen you'd hear that whisk of pure descent behind the wall. And halfway down there was an electric fixture for the doorbell—that bell my father would ring and ring years later when he stood at the door with that blood on him, like a newborn's caul, ringing ringing to enter. But back then he was only halfway down, a wad of sheets stuck in the chute, he could still fix the doorbell when it busted. He'd stand his kids in front of him, three skinny scared braggart kids, and run his gaze over them, a surgeon running his eyes over the tray,
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English-language films, 2008 singles, pine cloaca tip, upstairs closet