This is no surprise. I am often forgetful.

“That’s all right now,” Henry says.

Henry is as handsome as the day I met him; that thick beard silvered, sparkling eyes, hands which are beautiful to watch as they: Shuffle the bills, touch my body, cut the red meat of the steak with the strong knife.

He forks the cube of steak meat into his mouth. I am still enamored with even his chewing. But suddenly, the jaw stops moving.

“Henry?” I say. “Henry?”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, his hands grasp for his heart. I watch his eyes get big, bigger, biggest then he cleaves to the floor.

“Henry!” I scream.

I try the moves from the television shows: I place my mouth on his and breathe in, breathe out. I press two hands hard against his chest. His body trembles beneath mine until it doesn’t.

ONCE EVERY FEW MONTHS, MY BROTHER comes to visit me at the cabin.

Here is the routine: I slide my hand into the body of a chicken to remove the organs. I bring them out like wet pearls, purple, red, almost black. They quiver on the table, my favorite small dance.

In the hollow, I put the spices, the replacement. When my brother eats, I am whole again. His eyes glow if the food is good and they are glowing now. Then, his gaze lands on the organs, dry now, matte.

“Why the fuck would you keep those?” he asks, head down, mouth sewn shut, not taking another bite.

On the table, the organs continue to shrink. I love him so much I sob in the bathroom while he does the dishes, the sound of running water covering my warbling, my beautiful brother, my brother, alive, doing the dishes, my brother.

VISION

My brother’s face hovering above a birthday cake, exhaling onto the lit candles to extinguish the glow. My hand wrapped around the back of his soft head, pressing his face into the frosting, the sugar all over us both, the laughter pealing up out of our bodies, my god the way I love him, the way I cannot bring myself to say it then.

SOME DAYS, MY MIND TRICKS ME INTO thinking I am still knotted. I run my hand over my abdomen, and a bittersweet river courses through me when I find it flat. I picture the knot constantly, obsessively, as if it is a lost lover. I imagine it with a new life, on a new body, moving through the world without me.

IN THE GROCERY STORE, I FILL A SMALL cart with meat, eggs, spinach. When I touch the meat, the memories come: My father, bloodied up to the elbows. My brother, blood smeared across his cheeks and lips.