handfuls of air

In my family's house, I hear

a noise and walk outside to find

my father sprawled out in the dirt

behind the basketball hoop,

head sliced diagonally in two,

left half resting away from his body

in the grass. The ants explore his mind.

And a boxy red sedan is jammed

into a tree, hood arched and pouring

smoke, and I feel nothing

except that I should feel

something. I don't get close.

I've seen enough. I try to cry

but my uncle's dogs interrupt,

approaching, sniffing at the body.

I clap and yell to keep them back.

In the nearby lake, a swarm of gators

emerge, opening their giant jaws,

all pink flesh and bleached teeth

sparkling in the afternoon sun,

which falls and mixes with the smoke,

surreal and bright like paradise.

I take a picture, call for help.