by J.R.

The preacher told them all these things: “You should not outlast your own image, for in it you are bound to the fumes of disinterment. You should not forget to bless your comfort, for it places you among the sheaves of hundreds upon thousands of your closest friends. You should wait there, right where you are, alongside me, until together we can hold hands without the sweat of cowardice shielding our union. You will become the fleece and the ghost, and the triniculum will serve you the plates of ambrosia. You will wash me and I will wash you. You will devour lust, you must never reflect upon this hatred of yours—feed it embers, pyres, forests, kindle the world, and watch as the fire fills the cosmos. Humble yourself before my coiled staff and suck on it until it is as rigid as your heart before the word of the Lord. Make peace with time, enjoy children, be like the flower. And from the…”


At the crosswalk between Guernsey and Mount St. Helen, a wicked little man punctured the tank and the gasoline poured down the street, past the church, until it reached the highway which led straight to her door.

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