My mother's wings molted. Soon we would see the ribs on her back, stretching the flesh tight on her gray bones. The night of my brother's sleep, we let him in the fire on our patio. My father pressed his own face to the flames, licking the dust all floating around us.

My brother's name is never said again.

It came time to feed and sleep the horses, and my father put on his gloves and bit his tongue. (Horses smell blood, and its best to take it in your mouth.) We walked to the edge of the garden, my father's tongue followed us halfway there. He could not stop it from following. Blood spilled all over the dirt. My father spat and tapped his teeth to his knuckles. We can't keep talking, he said the horses won't sleep. I knew to lie down myself. My feet had said all they knew, and it was too loud and too late. The horses knew better than to sleep. It was night and The Bishop was nodding. My father was sweating from his nose and crotch, and we could hear The Bishop start to cry.

My horse was not asleep. He wrestled the lead robe from his haunches and bucked until no one was biting him. I asked him to sit on the dirt and count the worms, but he knew better. This horse was not unlike my brother. He knew when to eat and when to hide. I wanted to sleep there, with him, and let my eyes drip onto his thick neck until it was soaked and soft. I wanted him to carry me to Thursday and lick the sweat from my ear and chest. My father called to me, and I followed him back to the garden, and into the patio-- my mother shaking and sweating there.

Then went my father to sweep up her feathers.