You cooked your breakfast on your baby's spoon. You addressed the letter to that kid in the crib, told him Life is a grind, but I'm not a grinder. Life is a loss, but I'm not a finder. Even in that final note, you had to help yourself to rhyme. Now you're under the weather and over the moon. Merry's a funny name for you, as if Shaq's real name were Tiny. As if. Your pillbox is empty—just like me. P.S., you wrote. Your uncle will take care of you. Will. To me, it smells like must. Now you're under the weather and the Christmas tree. What's worse than finding half a worm in your apple? AIDS? The Holocaust? Your pain? You uncrossed the line and the River Styx. You're the enigma—a holiday miracle. No one should've survived thirty Klonopin, a pint of Jim Beam, three shots of insulin. Now you're under the weather and twenty-two sheets. They'll tell you the cosmos wanted you to live. They'll tell you it's 100% proof of a higher force. They'll tell you baby steps, only twelve. Jesus. They delivered your baby and the note. They say the ventilator is breathing for you. They say there's a good chance. They say there might be permanent damage. They say they thought it had snowed inside, a kitchen covered in coke, smashed Oxy capsules, Carfentanil. I had to look that up. Did you know zoos use it to tranquilize elephants? They say you'll forget.

Gutted, the house's entrails leak amber blood from the trunks and limbs of ancient maples. The work begins in the sprawling interior, the filling of walls with wiry veins, copper circulation, an expanding foam. The hand-blown windows watch with horror, anticipate the light with their particular orientation. The starlight reveals the intricate patterns on moldings and rafters, the architects' signature, like the curves of the fireplace and entryways, the pockets recessed in secret corners.