Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Voodoo He gave me a handmade box with floral motifs and four voodoo pins inside, four tiny children nailed to my body. He said: I'm yours even if required to prick the bolt between my legs and that viscera, the heart. Pessimistic butterflies flew. I heard their flapping, and in the shadows. The snap of a non-existent tongue.

Point of No Return A dart points at him from the corner of its eye his aftershave gives the afternoon a senseless titillation. A kiss hangs on a thread of that invisible line drawn in the air like the flight of an insect. Can that faraway flash of the lips, those bits of ardor in words be called kisses? Time passes beyond the two men, the point zero of love.