wistiti

My father broods on the simultaneity of ugly and lovely things, at least until the first shot cracks through the gloom and Lieutenant Ainslie falls against the brazier, fly only half-buttoned, his final cry that of a mauled wistiti. My father slouches home on his tummy, pausing only once to fire several rounds in the direction of the toppled brazier, still visible as he goes, inching, yarding, his way over the sludge.

He sold his stuffed tanagers, his lyrebird, his Quetzal; sold his six hawkbill tortoise shells, the pearl in the shape of a pig, the skull of a wistiti....