by Brent Fisk
When we're called home from playing at the neighbor's, the kitchen shutters are closed and latched. Everyone's slumped at the dinner table as if playing cards, but their faces are broken. Dad is pulling leaves off a plastic flower he's tugged from the centerpiece. My grandfather has died without leaving a note. My face becomes a mess of bees, a sudden pot of water. I look at the invisible cards in my hand - nothing to do but fold.
Brent Fisk, author of Clandestine, is a three-time Pushcart nominee who recently won an honorable mention in Boulevard's Emerging Poets contest. His work has appeared in Mimesis, Rattle, Fugue, and Southern Poetry Review among other places.