April 1, 2015

“We ate our dinner and mother bled. The blood came from beneath her fingernails and out the teakettle’s spout. The blood iced up in the freezer, creating square bricks of hard red. Father dropped one cube, then two, into his glass of water, and marveled at how the color floated, then unfurled. We played with our forks and knives. We stuck the knife points between the fork tines, cleaning them of anything too small to be visible. We scraped, then cleaned the knives upon our plates. We left brown stains behind. None of them would be washed away.”

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