Magics.

Early risers keep the whispers of their evenings in the milk jars lining the fridge.

When the dove’s head crunched under my boot, its beak punctured the rubber of the sole, embedding itself in my right foot. These days, I walk with the soft vibrations of its cooing tickling their way up my leg.

Fear is dying flowers on a bright day, the petals curling into fingernails on my counter.

Only on full-moon nights like this do I turn the headlights off on the last quarter-mile home.

Coyote yip-yaps are the lullaby that drifts across the yard. It is the symphony of silencing rabbits.

Only in candlelight do the books on the shelf begin to read themselves.

Cancer left you alone. The fibers of your breast were a forest the enemy couldn’t penetrate.

Heart surgeons are the highest-paid medical professionals. The cost of repairing each tear has left the procedure available only to those who can afford to hold someone else’s hands in their own.

When my father dies, his body will align itself, each bone after the other, into the outline of a dove.

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