Brother drowning
in a plastic bag in
a car driving west. 3
years old and face
turning bruised as
a forest’s march. It
was the first time I
realized that death
didn’t have to be so
cradled and rocked
by sticks of blood. I
don’t remember how
long it was before Mo-
ther noticed. But when
she did she turned pale
and ragged like old we-
dding dresses, or like
grandmothers’ feet.