What Light Does

The boy with the spoon tongue asked if our names still burned. His mother said Yes, but only in lowercase. We hadn’t seen the lake since it borrowed our mirrors.

There were three kinds of light that year: emergency, supermarket, and father. We folded all three into the lining of a stolen crib.

Someone mailed god a baby tooth and never got it back. The return address was just a bruised shoulder and a song about mowing the lawn.

My sister bit her prayers into the bar of soap we weren’t allowed to use. She said cleanliness is a place you leave, not a thing you become.

A fish in the neighbor’s driveway had my brother’s voice. It only sang during rain delay.

I used to have a secret name for grief. Now I just call it menu and let my son order from it.

The attic plays home video in reverse. That’s how we know who left.

Mom says don’t look at the moon if you’re bleeding. The dead are territorial. Dad replaced our dog with a dial tone. We fed it fingers.

Once, a tornado braided itself into the hair of our aunt. She said it made her feel seen. Her obituary was just coordinates and a taste.

When I’m tired, I sleep with both hands open. When I’m sad, I pour water into my mouth until I lose the century. When I’m honest, I tell the baby: you were never the first wind to believe it could stay.