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ISSN: 1941-4137 |
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Volume One Issue Three |
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BloodMusic On the drive home from the game, dad and I talk about how my sister told her kids to keep away from us. Dad says she can go ahead and say bad things, whatever she wants, because no one believes a wolf crying in the mirror. Slouched and holding his bag of peanuts, he dozes the rest of the way home. The brim of his hat bobs like a hand waving goodbye, and wrinkles in his cheeks write notation for sparrows to sing. We drive, and the eyelashes of trees push daylight to other side of the earth, brushing against rippled red and purple. I remember when I used to think crying smelled funny, and laughter dashing through vents in the house was bloodmusic. How the sunset was like this when his father died, and that everyone is like the sky in some way. |
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