301 Moved Permanently

301 Moved Permanently


nginx

The Clowns

Are at the hospital every week: their signed photographs are taped in the nurses’ Station beside a chart of the many faces of feces.
One day, the thieves were apprehended, and my father holds the telephone towards the revelry.
What kind of people would do this, he says, sadly.
The clowns make dragons from balloons and pull colored scarves from the mouths of barely sentient patients in wheelchairs:
I am still talking to him when a dove flies in and lands on his arm.
I hear him talking quietly to the bird; he says, Heather, can we bring it home?
My mother says she doesn’t think so,
Then there is a scuffle: the girl clown has grabbed the bird, Merde oiseau!
There is a smaller sound, almost unintelligible
Another string of my father’s heart snapping, the ejection of another pear-shaped tear.

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