We found my cousin in my Uncle Trevor’s barn, he slit his arms from wrist to elbow and then back again. He lay there twitching, a goldfish in broken glass, they shook him, begged, pleaded, I said: “Just let him be — he’s gone, gone, gone.” There’s a sweetness in the worst things. My room was bare, so I hung fuchsia over my bed. The blooms hang heavy, thrusting pistil, dripping spores; almost obscene, withered and ignored, they fall to the floor. There’s a sweetness in the worst things. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 [ next ]