Sing, Unburied, Sing

by Jesmyn Ward

The music, all violins and cellos, swells in the room, then recedes, like the water out in the Gulf before a big storm.

I found a stray cat dead, carbuncular and rotting, by the steps.

I realize there is another scent in his blood. This is where he differs from River. This scent blooms stronger than the dark rich mud of the bottom; it is the salt of the sea, burning with brine. It pulses in the current of his veins. This is part of the reason he can see me while the others, excepting the little girl, can’t. I am subject to that pulse, helpless as a fisherman in a boat with no engine, no oars, while the tide bears him onward.

“Make sure you get in them rolls,” I say. Jojo flinches like I’ve hit him. Shies closer to the mirror. It feels good to be mean, to speak past the baby I can’t hit and let that anger touch another.

the moue of his lips,

beyond being the uncle of the boy who shot my brother.