No, not every story is about the body. Take this one: my father dies.
The sky and earth, even the field corn in unwavering rows,
close neatly around that unoccupied space.
I held the slight weight of absence before I scattered it under the wild
dogwood one spring, then brushed ash from my fingertips. The trees
were blooming lavishly that year.
Someone is Always Missing
Like that red fox, black-tipped tail long as its body, flashing across
the dirt road, I might believe you have just stepped away from your
Unknown caller, my phone blinks, and I answer anyway. Hello?
Hello? I repeat, into the open line–