A father. Two brothers. The big dog and the laundry basket sleigh he carried me in, tied to his collar by a chain link of quilts, hand sewn quilts, the grandma quilts, not named as such because they were made by grandma but because they smell like the platonic ideal of a grandma. Grape-stained floorboards and the chandelier that held Christmas ornaments in June. Heat and sweat. Peaches and cream. The house mule and the barn cat, her naked pink kittens, the rooster and the hen. Veal calves and milk cows. I was raised by the foal ripped hock to flank to barrel and the coyote that done it, by the bullet we put in them both. One mercy, one justice. My mother up until she cut a square door in the sky, opened it, and left. The hot glue gun that patched it over with another plot of heaven. A glass wall. Visitation hours. The white heads of dandelions, promising that something would come true, anything at all. I waited for the blue door to open but when it did I realized what the bullet was for: helping you sing Auld Lang Syne. I turned away and followed the trail of sugar that caught the fly. The jar of vinegar that caught the butterfly,
the bright green wing
shining like an oil spill.

a.k. barak (they/them) was last seen poorly erecting circus tents in Columbus, Georgia after a TNR attempt went awry. Their work has been published or is forthcoming in coalitionworks, Dead End, Robot Butt, Oakland Arts Review, and elsewhere.