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March 9, 2022 / barton smock

(december 2021 to present, (partials, (entry

I wonder does death worry about my son like does death ever grip the doorknob that hurt a sound

.

God and time mark differently the length of death's dream. My youngest son my sickest falls asleep on his mother, then on me, then again on his mother. I will always need to carry him to someone who can carry him.

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God can't read grief's handwriting. This is where most of us come in. We tell the kids they're dying because one of them is. I hope it helps. Find a hole in three of your father's shadows. Lose the rabbit.

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I was touching people with other people and my movies were getting made. Pain drank my sons away. I remember my daughter asking god what's the hardest animal to be. Her drawings got better, and then worse. We knew what to do, but did nothing. You haven't seen anything until you've seen an angel reenact running out of ghost blood. Aliens grieve in dog years. 

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I thought learning would free me from feelings of terror. In photos of the infant me, photos are a thing of the past. It's far too easy to like a child. 

.

Sister's eggshell rabbits. The hand I don't use anymore. Brother's angel emptying its stomach for the ghost of an undiscovered fish. Thunderstorm's best invisible cemetery.

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Grief is that sibling who's tired all the time but still moves a pill from friend to friend while believing that if you watch a movie before anyone else then the sex scenes are real. Our version of musical chairs has us adding 

a chair. I don't get hungry. No one 
wins the baby.

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Memory only eats in front of god. Mothers and daughters smoke together from tornado watch to warning trying to pick up on voice changes in a neighbor's fish and in doing so make of each cigarette a ghost kite that leaves me longing to miss a more specific balloon. There aren't enough of us. Every suicide surprises loss.

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Each finger believes it knows how many times the hand has been troubled. Image unseen, angel takes every bone. Bread hides itself in bread. Becomes paper in the pilot’s stomach. 

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A boy whose mother is cleaning a house in the dark is saying very near to my son that our hands are the same age. No one is being kissed. A blank drink makes something of my mouth but it's too late. You can't take prayer with you. Words get named.

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