Shantih Journal 2.1 - Page 63

with whiskey-mark necks. Like a scream of darts found them in the sanctuary’s locked basement in the dark. One night, they drew it—the town they dreamt of, fences yellowed, clouds like the static on the tv. Their only light. Knowing any other would wake one’s sleeping sister, her body in the corner of the room’s mouth. Faithful, moving only as God does. One night in a symphony of nights. And He likes us until he doesn’t. Like trees struck by lightning, we aren’t visible until we’re on fire. Everything depreciates like this once it’s been said. Unless it is overheard. Unless it is shot in flight. Previously appeared in Crazyhorse 63