Silent
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: my neighbors standing outside packing axioms and any other thing they could find, guns, crucifixes, shovels. “Hi, we were wondering about the odor?” It’s not coming from here, I’m not quite dead yet. Occasionally, I see apparitions of myself standing by the window, or 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 catching mosquitoes on maracas. She said: everything spoken eventually becomes water and blends. I am going to stop talking for seven years, but first let me repeat this a few more times. Harmonizing the sacred. Harmonizing the sacred. Sanctus Sanctus Sanctus © Sergio A. Ortiz, Publisher: Flutter Press, 200