we had a water-logged dogand six chickens on the road to burly country men, button-downed, who bought us shots in Nashville. we laughed, the levees held, the morning felt like an index finger tapping on the wet window and then the whole wall was in my mouth.

I don’t really remember the popped tire, just the trail of the boat in rearview, swerving like it would have in waves, feathers from the truck bed like plumes decorating our exodus, some barking, some talking, some memories of the river, at peace, in its past afternoons. I remember: the faint feel of spent revel, the frayed edges of wet shreds.

when you kill a chicken by decapitation it really does run flies actually ten feet up spurting blood from its neckspout onto your mother’s window and the neighbors’ fenceposts, but you have to let it go, can’t hold it down for those last fleeting flying fighting moments.

never tie my dog up before he dies; he needs to face east.

and bury me at sea. fish have no memories.