All Saints’ Day

There are always cops on that road, slow and windy, cars lining the sides like sardines in a can. Sidewalks packed with four rowdy teenagers. Three small terriers, one with a limp. A frail old woman wearing a blue cardigan…

Mid breath. Father spins as a white and khaki pinwheel on a black marbled floor. His hands plunge into his thirty-six-year-old chest. I digress. Grandma exhales in an olive-green tank. She drowns before her oxygen-filled spouse. I regress. Mom’s dad…

I kill the yeast. Everything is
hot water these days