The mother who didn’t come home is never mentioned. The new dog has a new name. Not a ghost, but a red capsicum—when cut in half and placed under a white shirt—takes the appearance of a heart. Reality is based on illustrations. The body count rises as more and more visitors are turned away at the door. Dinner is a simple act of faith. At the head of the table, asymmetrical meat and vertigo. Something in the air has killed the flies. Something like the man who isn’t eating is not the real father. After all this time, hands remain the best weapons of destruction. At night the cupboards are watercolor quiet. So many things there preserved in glass jars. Could be peaches. Or sweeter—three infants, joined at the hip, sharing in the formaldehyde.