Death of a Ventriloquist

The Worst First Line

70 The Worst First Line I’m happy can sometimes be redeemed because the midnight house is made from breath and electric quiet; because particulate matter in the atmosphere allows a particular inhuman crimson to appear; because the toddler wouldn’t nap but did lie down for a whole hour singing about a race he’d run someday; because the baby has us sleepless, the boy has us breathless and minutes ago I carried him upstairs while he screamed; because I held him by one arm and one leg and he was kicking and I knew I was close to hurting him. I knew if I let my mind go I would hurt him. 71 With you and the two boys in the room I say, I know you’re not happy. Because your face almost breaks. Because male bumblebees look armed, terrifying, but never sting—their stingers evolved into genitals that grip the queen for over an hour, and she can even fly him somewhere; because, after Taps, Big Campfire, and Hush Little Baby, my son turns to me, says, Are you happy? ...