Previously published in Bombay Gin 39.1
They have asked me to embalm my father, and despite my protest, I am here in the basement that was once my room—a black light, those Tolkien books, posters on the walls —with a bread knife. His belly is distended; like fresh bread, he splits bloodlessly. I pull from him: a handful of pink seashells, a cracked garden hose, a wooden owl the size of a baseball, a child’s shoe, a bowling ball, keys, a music box that still plays when I open it.

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