city park and took a walk.
“Here you go,” I said handing the bag of muffins to a guy living on a bench.
“Thanks. What is it?”
“Entanglements. Enjoy them.”
“What’re they, German?” he said looking in the bag.
“They’re from Colorado.”
The guy was digging in and watching me walk away at the same time.

Lee’s across the river on the stone where we clean animals. He’d be naked, but he has a beard. He’s got one hand going in and out of a dead deer like he’s trying to restart the heart. The other hand is lifting one of the deer’s legs. Lee runs his tongue over the leg like he’s sealing an envelope. He spits out a hair and does it again.
I stand by the fire. I’m naked, too. Last night was the last night for us. I pee in the fire, and it hurts. A black snake out of season goes heavy across my foot. The snake wraps my ankle because I’m warm.
I grew up with snakes. We kept them in the basement and pulled them out on Sundays. My mother prayed for her hair to turn into snakes so she could always be tested. She stuck her head in one of the snake boxes and yelled, and that’s how she lost her nose. My family has a lot of incomplete ghosts.
I’m quiet, but Lee sees me anyway. He puts his tongue away and pulls his hand out of the deer. He stands, and he’s mostly blood. I try to make a face he can’t read.
I fail.