The Idea

If was effortless and moving in an ugly

direction. The priest wasn't satisfied with 

the ribcage. The parents weren't satisfied

with the priest. The mother was weeping

and counting. The father was no father

at all, instead, a lonely crumpled sheet

of paper. He began beating his fold-y wings

and shushing the wind. O, the wind. Always

we end in this situation with the wind

eating the Jello from our plates. My dead 

sister, who never made sense till she 

was gone, she no longer was gone and 

was suddenly here and explaining some

reasonably complicated shit. I was just 

gawking and fussing over the back

half of my brain. Back there, barking, barking,

barking, barking. In the front office,

good times I shouldn't talk about.