After your father gets lost for the third time, you get angry because he won’t answer his phone. Part of me wants him to stay lost. God, what has stolen my generosity?
I dreamed of it again, my dad’s body lost to us again but finally found again, we set him in Dickinson’s coffin, wooden, painted white, where had his body been all these years, things felt strange,
We were quick to tell each other what we wanted. I said, I want to be cremated and then I want my ashes to be tossed in the Pacific and the Atlantic. He said I was greedy for wanting both coasts, but he’d do it.
After the pigs and lambs and rabbits were sold off at auction they bought a 30 dollar goat and named it Snowflake Brownie and then a second one called Cookie Dough the third Brandon but the names melded into dubbing them the Healing Goats...
It was actually a good year, the year before the downfall, a surprisingly good year in our little town. It was a year of bread on the table, a year with a new IPA in our glasses, a year with friends who visited with great frequency.
I fell on an incline, talus, tibia, fibula, calcaneal tendon mangled, red circuits ruptured, body facing east toward a little town named Climax and then New York where I once danced in a circle of girls
