After the accident, our parish halls grew swollen. I weanedlambs from the pale soap that cascaded downtheir mothers’ swollen udders. Myfingers parted their begging mouths. I shook confettifrom their hooves in the webbed meshof night. My mother held the bulbs ofher crimson amaryllis and summonedthe lunar new year from its greennirvana. That night I spoke to tulips. Thatnight I smoked and smoked; tobacco leavesgrew fur and I shined a light in their yawningmouths. Jesus wore a halo. It had never rainedso gently. Jesus crawled below the surfaceof a claw-foot tub, among imagined gardensof aloe and jade. Children inundated thesquare and their faces ticked with the pleadingrhythm of a cat’s tongue. I drank tears from soup. I drankand drank as the last drop sunk inside itself.