the maggots are never

dirty

even though they

live in

filth

their whiteness

remains

immaculate somehow

They reach out and

emerge

wiggling from the

rotten flesh. Either

searching for

the meaning of

life

or offering an answer

to it

It was hard to decide

watching

them from above

but the younger the

eye, the blinder

to reality

“I like this one,” said

the little girl,

touching and caressing

the back of one

not much slimmer than

her finger. “I think I’ll name

him Bread. I like

bread.”

“Me too,” said the boy. “And

I like… this

one.” He pointed at another

just as big. I’ll name

her… Mother. Because

I miss her.”

“Oh, me too.”

“She told us that a day

will come

when we’ll have to be

the ones

taking care of her.”

“Oh, but when will

that day come?”

“I don’t know. Maybe when

The sun no longer

hides behind

hills

because there are no

more hills

There’s only

buildings. One

taller and wider

than the

other

Our parents told us

that this city

is growing, expanding

but as far as we

see

it’s only

doing so upwards

We are still

young, still harboring

hopeful visions

that one day

we’ll leave

and we talk about

these hopes

while sharing beer

and gin

on the curb overlooking

the park

at 9 PM

“If we don’t make it out

soon,” says a friend, “we’re

all gonna end up

like her.”

His hand is wrapped around

an opened beer can

and a finger detaches to

point over the low

fence

at a girl who sits

alone on

the swing

We all knew her

thought not

personally

just from sight

She came to the park daily

and stood

by herself,

usually on a swing…