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November 13, 2020 / barton smock

from ( diets of the resurrected )

The boy balances a basketball on his head outside his father’s bar. His mother is somewhere a girl on a trampoline who sings to a white pup named Fossil. The baby he keeps seeing hasn’t done much beyond biting an arm and eating a crayon. His abandoned sister is giving birth so calmly she is not blown away by the fact that it’s only her second time wearing the blindfold her angels wear to fish. His brother is in therapy to process the loss of others who think we’re gods when we smoke. I joined the boy once to look at an empty crib. He drank tea from eggshells and I declined. Nothing goes missing, he said, when your hair is a nightgown. I swatted him to let him know I was dying, then swatted him again to let him know I would live. The tea was gone. The rest is sadness.

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