A dream I had, a room of trophies and carpet flooding from below. Father bleeding on the tarmac, frightening the birds. Mother’s voice soft and sad. What can you see through the paper cow taped to the wall, through the holes from hoof to horn? I can see the salvaged ports, the lost dogs, the monsoon. Our currents, tides, pulling the hagfish closer to the peninsula. A bulletin board, decorated by your tiny fingers.
by Scott Riley Irvine of Atlanta