by Kelly McQuain Micah Bratt I put on my father’s shoes to take out the trash while he was passed out on the couch again. And when I came in and saw him still there I kicked off his shoes and put on his feet to walk awhile in them, and when his soles grew blistered from deserts carelessly tread I sloughed my father’s skin to walk on bone, calcaneus and phalanges, cuboid and metatarsal. On and on I walked, possessed, past shimmering oases and glimmering ships, and losses that