birthplace 43
It was snowing. The baby was there even though it wasn’t its day. Mom was vacuuming. My hair was trying to burn. Your brother the anorexic was swearing he’d seen a frog turn to dust. My sisters argued over nostalgia and did not over time sensitive déjà vu. Touch came out of nowhere to die above an angel’s knee. Tornado, dad said, impossibly. His eye had crawled into something and he was looking for an image to get it back. Snow on our frogless loss. We made that rule about your brother.
kingsoftrain 
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