When my daughter declares
Look, I’m pretty like Mommy!
I’m caught in her red smear
of lipstick—cheek to cheek.

I am the angler in waders and cutting currents.
I am the trout we hooked through the eye.

I am my grandmother gutting the thing
in one sure and fluid flick, saying
Fish taste best the day they’re caught.

When the cat hides behind the door
to die alone, we find her curled

into a question mark. My husband
puts her in a plastic and leaves her

in the garage. When I find her I take her
out, find a cardboard box, and cover her
with petals.

I thought God was supposed to come
down and bestow
the peace he promised
me.

The only one who answers me
is the dog, head on my lap,
drool warming my pants.

If God was here surely
I would know it? Surely I would know
how I am supposed to measure
the value of a day.

The girls run out of the screen door, frowning.
Their fingers find fur and picked petals—
coneflowers and sunchokes.
I kiss each kid right where their eye
and cheekbone meet. I taste salt.
My thumb moves to brush off the mark
my lips left, but my youngest says
No. Says leave it. I like it. Then she runs off
to play.

Kara J. Page is a writer, visual artist, and cowboy. She writes about memory, family, and place and the strange places where those things overlap. She believes good writing should occasionally make you laugh, good boots should be broken in by soaking them in water and wearing them until they’re dry, and Garamond is almost always the correct font.