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I found them, cleaned of blood,
near the sink. Mother lined up
the casings on the kitchen table.
I fingered the bent bullets then
took them to my room.
I dropped them on the carpet.
They grew so small, first
clumps of salt, then
nothing, lint. Mother wanted them back
for her special box. But I couldn't
tell bullet from lint.
My brother was sitting on the couch,
drinking soup from a mug,
a thin bandage
wrapped around his head.
Snow was falling
from the ceiling. He was happy.
He looked happy. Mother
opened a tangerine with her thumbs. The dog
took the peel into his mouth, carried it outside
and dropped it.
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Once, a tick burrowed into my neck.
Mother put a lighter to the hole
and tried to burn the bastard out.
Later, after she & my father
and brother went to sleep,
I tiptoed out onto the porch
and watched wind move the trees
along the highway. The flaxseed vitamins
she’d bought for me shone
when I held them up to the moon.
When I tried to touch the shining my hand shone.
I lived happily then. The carpet was green
and at night I couldn’t feel a thing.