21.05.04 - 12:11 a.m.

im laying face down in a snowdrift next
to a mass, four legs cartoon-upright
and it takes me hours which are really fractions
of seconds to realize: its a dog, dead in
the yard of my grandparents brick house in
michigan and theres a party inside so i
get up, make my way through throngs of
mourners, people in black - women in veils
past covered mirrors and tables of pastries
to a small man with elephant ears
the first to look me in the eye and i start crying, press
my nose into the crook of his neck and i know its
my dad theyre mourning, whose casket was sitting
in the room where my grandpa kept the records
i can feel the damp of his collar on my cheek and he
says youre crying because you dont care
and rubs my head the way my mother used to when i couldnt fall asleep.

the book of recurrent dreams
previous next

the project museum

the revolution will be catalogued

this american life

the library of congress

i used to believe







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