I.

Uncle runs a marathon and forgets everything, even the shoes he wears. Other Uncle eats breakfast cereal out of the box, which stretches like gauze to fit his hand. Other Other Uncle hits snooze. Other Other Uncle’s boyfriend groans and shoves and tries to remind. Aunt lays out a yoga mat while Uncle trains, and she remembers everything, even the shoes he’s wearing. Other Aunt swallows snakes. Other Other Aunt’s neck stiffens as she snores in the easy chair by the front door, her mouth open to the sky like the point in a question mark.

II.

Cousin watches the mirror until the image within is once again recognizable, electric with envy and hatred. Other Cousin spends. Other Other Cousin talks with strangers online and forgets everything, even the snakes his mother swallows. Other Other Other Cousin rescues some, harvests the scales, packages them on pages, then watches them reemerge as dragons in other people. Other Other Other Other Cousin shouts at strangers. Final Cousin already died, speeding with the answer to her mother’s question sloshing through her veins.

Daughter skips. Niece draws snakes in a notebook. Nephew slides into second base and forgets everything, even the number on his back. Other Nephew scrolls, snaps, posts, and hardens like magma. Other Niece sells her lunch to other kids, afraid of her great uncle’s gauze. Other Other Nephew decides he believes in god and pickets with his friends outside Planned Parenthood, mouths full of teeth. Other Other Other Nephew decides he doesn’t want children of his own. Other Niece tends a growing list of websites for properties in Canada. Other Other Other Other Nephew swallows locusts. Other Other Other Other Other Nephew walks the dog and one day only the dog comes back. Final Nephew’s jaw stiffens, unable to stop himself from clenching it as he sleeps, tight as a period. Final Niece hates as a way of life and forgets everything, even the hatred.

III.

Dad looks at the newspaper, even though the newspaper hasn’t come in half a decade and his pinched fingers grasp nothing. Mom turns up the volume on the TV until it’s loud enough to hear. Brother turns it down until it’s soft enough to think. Other Brother sorts, catalogues, telephones, signs, and plots. Daughter chases the cat with a plastic rod attached to a fuzzy string and remembers the unit’s floor-plan, but not what’s inside. Sister has nowhere to hide.

IV.

The doctor is a snake, not the kind you swallow, but the kind you turn to when you’ve swallowed too much. A colleague writes letters to his senator every night but sends none of them. Another takes the stairs all nine stories, strengthening his volcanic calves and his heart of ash. Another takes it out on the physician’s assistants. Another chews before swallowing. Another raises his eyebrows at what he sees, like umlauts. Another keeps plants in his office, waiting for locusts.

One nurse practices meditation, aiming for a place where her professional training becomes gibberish. The other nurse watches a monitor and names figures and forgets everything, even flesh. The receptionist clicks, slacks, searches, and dreams. The laboratory technician researches the furthest they could travel tomorrow for under five hundred dollars. The security guard is a discontinued train car still in service for now. One insurance administrator wears headphones, either for music or silence, no one knows for sure. Another pictures everyone else in the nude, not in a lascivious way, but to demean. One administrative assistant takes her shoes off under her desk and forgets everything, even her socks. Another calculates, by hand, the prime factors of random twelve-digit numbers during team meetings. Another hides nowhere, and therefore cannot be found. Another closes browser tabs until it’s soft enough to think. The resident dreams of sleep.

V.

The first at-home caregiver counts out a breath before answering the telephone. The second takes every overtime shift she can, because it is easier to swallow the snakes she finds looking after Mom and Dad than the ones at home. The third counts minutes, but not those currently passing. The fourth binges. The fifth sews the tears in her leggings in order to save. The sixth mixes the coals before stepping in them. The case manager drips. The therapist nods, shakes, bobs, floats, ascends, becomes stuck to the ceiling. The psychiatrist leans forward, his black eyes like a colon to a clause above his hairline.

VI.

The funeral attendant gives a professionally unhappy smile, in the shape of a hyphen. One assistant says hello to everyone, one at a time, each morning without fail, as if spring never ended. Another refuses every workplace social invitation, guarding her reputation like a butterfly with wings spread by pins. One administrative assistant chooses which of her four dozen animal-themed socks to wear each morning, depending on her mood. Another wipes down the common spaces and wears a surgical mask. The bookkeeper always wears gloves, but not on her hands, and she never forgets them. The floral designer uses a key. The catering coordinator comments on the animal socks. The funeral director overshares, laughs, says sorry but doesn’t apologize.

The eulogist swaddles personal details in gauze. The casket delivery driver makes his forehead into a racetrack and complains that allergy season always gives him such a headache, like a high tide wondering at the turbulence of its surf. The caterer swallows twigs and thinks them snakes. One pallbearer wrenches, screws, oils, and plummets. Another listens either to the first thirty seconds or the last.

Family feels, and forgets everything.