Through screens waxwings swarm the apple blossoms, sweet and sticky. I feel drained, blank as the apparitions of lost children leap from tree to tree, then perch on the wire veins entwining over our silent bedroom. A hum like chrome life support equipment is all I hear. My wet hair is strung in clotted mats. I get up, pour a drink, sink in a recliner, punch the remote.
Flies crawl on kids with empty bowls.
Fever blisters cover their open arms.