It's important we remember
as a family. There was no
shine before our daughter. Instead
this world was water; without weight,
without rot. Our girl has a father
who never skinned yearlings.
Sweetheart, there is no tragedy in this.
The sad part died in the creek
with each of our sisters. It died
in the beds where our uncles
undressed us. It died on the porch
where our mothers shot bleach. Sweetheart,
there is nothing left for mercy.
What you might call mine is just
a little girl claiming angels
sewed her dress. The truth has always
been two-fold: Night terrors and
visions. All the girls we watched
gag, and our daughter laughing.
by Caleb Kaiser
Caleb Kaiser is a writer from Kentucky living in Chicago. His work has recently appeared in BOAAT, Painted Bride Quarterly, Diagram, and PANK. He is a staff member of Able Projects and the Adroit Journal.