Looking back through the rear window of my stepmother’s Taurus to see what became of the pigeon she had driven over was one of many confusions. I could not understand how people could repeatedly drive the blood out of him, and into the pavement. Sometimes I forget the whole scene, erase it from my memory, but while remembering a more comfortable one, which is my dishonoring my stepmother by commanding her to pull the go switch out of the machine in her time, in fact, freeze the road inside all the drivers, make them slip helplessly over the embankment into their stillness, then get out of the car, run back to that awful bird banging the side of his beak against the yellow line, bend down, gather him in my hands, and walk off, dripping him under the shady fingers of a tree, sit down and watch him look at me through my own fingers, to see what I might look like if I, by and with myself, were fighting the kind of death that doesn’t care to stick around long enough to see if anything gets taken care of.

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