(no subject)

[likepatsycline]

Dad talks to Vaczech in the middle of the night. They talk about running programs. Mario stays and stays, we sit on the stairs and listen to Dad’s sterile and beautiful language. Tonight we eat baked fish under the oak tree. There is a party in the valley, like every summer on record. The garden curls around us because we are lonely.

I open a letter from Rachel and the field slopes uneasily. We spent hours together, standing in the kitchen, the sky breaking apart, our faces breaking apart.