Sweet Agatha

Awake in bed. Not from screams or sirens; not towers collapsing or bombs in the market square; not from jackboots on foreing soil or fires in the countryside; not to a razor at my throat or a kiss on my mouth or the trumpet of angels or the horns of a car wreck or the cries of children or the curses of old men – no, nothing so dramatic as that, but instead to a cold, quiet realization. I woke to the hard odds that this won’t end well, the keen understanding that there will likely never be keen understanding. This mess will probably just lead to even more mess. Doesn’t matter. I won’t be able to sleep again until I get my hands dirty.

6 days ago the sky opened its mouth and from it came a great deluge. Parkinglot potholes filled with puddles. Potted flowers and street weeds drank deep of runoff and, at some point in the night before the clouds emptied out, Agatha disappeared.

Sweet Agatah, por Kevin Allen Jr.

He roto el sello, ahora no puedo parar.

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