—from the Swedish folk tale and uncle, you’re there, where the black-eyed Susans mirror and meet at the root, lose all sense of direction. They grow straight down, down where you warp and ripple, uncle, down where you lean on the handle of your blue- spaded shovel after the hurricane split your beach house’s sewer line— after the dune grass flooded and formed its own wavering lake. After your death your boardwalk rotted in the middle, so to get to the sea I now walk through the tangle of your yard: your salt cedars, your string- bean patch so heavy the whole fence sways. These days, there’s another forest growing in the water—seaweed red as your mustache as it burned in the funeral home’s oven. What the tide tells me, uncle: it must’ve been the first part of you to catch. in memory. The dark side. We sat in a circle of frayed wicker.