Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Last Judgment  I tried to feel  my heart yet there was nothing there except row  upon row of saints  warming themselves in the sunlight  of a winter morning.   They were silent and in eternal  isolation.

March 30 I run to the door hopeful that he is there but my brown eyes swim with terror as I open the door to the gunk of all my yesterdays rotting in the hollow of my skull. I sit at the kitchen table nibbling on the bonbon of sin until I cast off my identity musing on the scent of gardenias, lost in a subtle metaphor of blood festering in a crypt.