My mother is spooning ice cubes
into her orchid one spoonful
at a time, like sugar
onto a horse’s eely tongue.

My brother has a new job
driving a glassware truck
from Detroit to Toledo.
He’s six-months clean.

The flutes and stems
quake beyond the ten-barrel
hull as if he is hauling livestock
who shift their fragile weight.

My father is out back burning
Japanese beetles
off his grape vines
with a crème brulee torch,

their thoraxes collecting
in the pool-blue kiddie pool
that he straddles
like a butter churner.

I am arranging my clothes
by color; off-white, off-white,
dune, dune, cornflower.

So, I’ll be both dog and pony.
Arrange my convoy of losses like this.