in_cold_blood ovenbird The man in the orange jumpsuit won’t speak to me. He’s roaming the backyard, his face twisted into a snarl, poking at the grass. A patch stitched to his pocket says “Plant Patrol,” but when I ask him why he’s there he stares through me. It’s already dark and the yard is flooded with filthy water from a recent storm. The dismembered corpse of a pig is floating in a puddle. The mouth hangs open as if waiting for someone to stuff in an apple and serve it for dinner. An anteater wanders over from the neighbour’s yard, squeezing through a hole in the chain link fence, crushing the hostas. My dog barks frantically. I kiss the mouth of a man who is still living in the body he had when he was a teenager. He doesn’t love me. Downstairs my father is watching TV. A murder mystery. I insinuate myself into the plot and bury a hatchet in the skull of an unsuspecting librarian. There’s blood on my hands, there’s blood dripping from the snout of the pig bloating on the back lawn, there’s blood in the eyes of my furious dog. My face is furrowed and old. I thought I had more time, but my blood is already running cold. 250926 what's it to you? who go blather from