by Deborah Ostrovsky, translated from Laurence Leduc-Primeau

The man puffs on a pipe, with a monkey in his arms. One time out of every second exhale, he disappears behind plumes of smoke. Come in, he says, when I’m already inside. Swallows and umbrellas are perched in a tree above a velvet rug. The man, who doesn’t have a monocle, points me to a photo of his uniformed son under a pile of bird droppings.

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