i dreamed last night that the boys were in the kitchen, burning the same pan over ad over again. the children, my little brothers and a tiny, brown-cheeked girl, stood in the no-man's-land between the ocean and the shore, my father and i watching as they raisined their toes.
a wave came- tall as a horse, a ceiling, the sky, tall as the atlantic is wide, but greedier than any of those- leapt up and swallowed them, dragging them, leashed, out to sea, sharp fingered. they were years younger than they are, and gone.
my father and i fell upon the waves, turning each one over, looking beneath, and feeling all the way into the corners. the little girl rose up in his arms and i tugged at the wings on her back, wrenching her about; they were a gift from the sea, not from heaven. she choked and i pushed her hair from her eyes.
my father climbed up to the beach, frantic, and the sea became a rug, soaked and dark green with black rubber shores. we ran our fingers across its surface, searching for lumps, pennies smothered beneath
smoke continued to rise from the oven, ruined pans all in a line.
