Photo by Biodiversity Heritage Library

My father put the bat in a glass jar, after,
though I’m not sure that’s the whole story.
I never saw and can’t be certain. But I’d

watched it leap through the window, and
the forked wings circled my head—as in
old cartoons when incredible blows strike

against the striving orchestra. Bruno would
always cut off their wings. He’d show me
trophies of caterpillars, crickets, and melt

live bugs in the microwave. If he’d stayed
back in Belgrade, he’d have shelves creaking
with guns. Yet, it was in strange opposition

that above his bed, gold and turquoise
wings were pinned near a pencil drawing
I’d done of his dog. Of course, there persisted

something low, dank. But if he stole a beer
from downstairs, we’d share. Keep the
lights on. Sometimes, there was even music.