Dog-bitten and soft, the casualty of our happy home gifts palmfuls of fruit each June, antisocial sanctum each afternoon. A simple hum, fluttering green thumb, dove chests and eggshell ribs soaking my parents’ pacific yard. Would it be so terrible? Bathtub voices, berries, jungly suspension over the yard? Every eye in this house a tree stump, a pair of well-worn feet. Everyone I love is a dandelion on a lawn, lifting lemony face, grinning at a loving mother sun. Everyone I love is a thumbtack on a globe, grasping for each other through thin red string, floating each other’s names across paper blue skin. -Autumn Doucette