a bunny my brother hadn’t fed began elsewhere in the opening line of a friend’s memoir.  I ran with a lollipop in my mouth toward my father who could sell a shovel to a mermaid.  my mother ****** her thumb and so taught by example how to become invisible to god.  your son slept while you were spotted looking through a widow’s viewfinder at each of the three places he’d wished into being.  a child-torn child made room in a body bag.  drugged my elbows.