written by: Sergio A. Ortiz
A chorus of genuflections filtered through
the kitchen ventilator and knelt beside my bed
around midnight. I knew Georgina was dead.
My rocking chair peeled
its mahogany finish in her honor.
There were loud knocks at the door. Neighbors
packing axioms, guns, crucifixes, shovels.
“Hi, we were wondering about the odor?”
It’s not coming from here, I’m not dead.
Occasionally, I see apparitions of myself
standing by the window, behind the shower curtain,
but I still go fly fishing.
Mother came to me in a dream last night, gave me the password
to a house where boas reincarnate into possessed lizards
snapping at mosquitoes on maracas. She said,
everything spoken becomes water.
I am going to stop talking for seven years,
but first, let me repeat this a few more
Harmonizing the sacred Harmonizing the sacred
Harmonizing the sacred