Our brother wraps an old towel soaked with gasoline around the end of
a hunting arrow and lights it on fire, snaps the strings and launches
it into the hay bail, watches the eye of the target morph and twist
under the weight of the heat, watches everything bend and bend. He
wanted to see how far it would launch, if it would go over or under,
if it would catch anything on fire at all.
Our brother smells like gasoline all day and into the next. He is
breathing gasoline. He is a locomotive. We tell him he is a car. We
tell him he eats gas like a robot. He gets angry with us, tells us
that we are dead, that we will be dead, that as soon as he gets back
from school it's on, he says, you are all dead.
At school we think about how we are dead all day. We wonder what it is
like to zombify, to eat the alive. We want to eat every single person
we come into contact with. We want to eat their flesh until we can see
their bones, we can see the goldfish swimming in their veins. We want
to eat the goldfish. We want to marinade all of the blood goldfish and
lay them on skewers, lay them on skewers and have our Father grill
them outside for dinner, even though it is too wet and gray to grill
them outside for dinner, even though we don't own a grill.
When we get home, our brother is hunched over in the garage over the
gas can. He has his mouth covered with another rag. He has his face
covered with a rag. He has his whole body covered in a rag. He is a
rag soaked in gasoline.