by Baldr Eldursson
from a distance, gardens; his nose kissing the cool neck of a stem pulverized by the steaming lips of his hot coal mouth. was it his fault?
hardly a call he can make; the telephone shivers in his hand, cold like the day of her funeral or another distant thought slowly
accumulating miles, the afterlife not terminal like an aiport, more like the runway where they take off their souls for security; the engines
fail and the rain fells him. halfway through the gate he sees a man on the strip, but he can’t handle the sight of his naked body
rotting so he shuts his eyes, a moratorium on death, on whose never-ending landing plane the women cross themselves and their legs when the
rotors roll but the men aren’t having it: they’ll get what they want in the end or the meantime, anyway, they whisper to each other,
anxious. their seatbelts lock and the old man beside him breathes his last breath; they share it like the last glass of wine before the
bottle shatters over the head of his worst friend, who left him at the altar lifting his arms to the sky, a model airplane between his
fingers like a cigarette up in flames and dripping ashes like a dog sweats when hungry between its teeth, going out with a loud bang.
he thinks about the last supper they shared together: the worst garlic bread he’d ever had. they laughed about it thinking that if they
cornered their watches into the darkest nook of the room, time would take the time time takes to pass, silently into and beyond their grasp.
he looks at himself in the mirror and gasps, the rainclouds gathering inside his lungs. on the next day he decides to bring an umbrella.