—WHAT ARE THE ANGELS GONNA DO WITH YOU AND I?

 

 

Stained

 

She wanted me to see what I couldn’t, smears of dirt etched in the whorls of her hand, clouds of bacteria hanging over the air like a fleet of UFOs, grime on washed clothing, her new blouse soiled though it wasn’t and hadn’t yet been worn, our home a den of filth that repeated soap-scrubbing did little to eliminate, and later, as we  each sat at one end of the bath, I asked what I should have long ago: Honey, how come you never talk about your father?