By B.B.P. Hosmillo

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Lumped even before the liftoff my prayers take their bonnets off and bang their sketchy heads against the mirror. You’ve come here alone, you will die here alone.

                                                                                                                        Here alone—but I believe in heaven. Remain in love with him who finds no door out of drowning. Wait in the entrance of a cinema to watch nothing, with no one.

                                                                                                At 10 AM I remind a child crossing the snow-eaten street to hold the hand of his dead mother a breath-shaped figure with the trouble of being still walking beside him.

                                                                                     In the afternoon, a police operation leaves a dead dog behind. Bullet-twirled. A levitation. Only by looking at it I can tell the dog is no longer a dog so I take that thing that is not itself home the way you would put an exigent newborn back the distant crib, and then back the dream.

                                                                                                              Hours inconsolable stare back at the shame of losing, and then inhabit a legless memory, the very first  when it all came about the beauty of exhaustion, watching how I ran my hands through, pushed straight down on, put my ear on the water-filled chest of a man soaked in fog and sound of rain—a planet ring length of days, the quiet talking enduring no answer; and while I can I whisper to his frozen ear your name means olive spring in January and one that returns. So you see, death is revisable for hope.

                                                                      Come the crow-etched night, the sober wind wobbling empty beers, the thought that someone is gently combing the hair of a reading woman to make an essential place, like a steppe before machines or where to imagine is enough, something of the body can permanently live in wears me. How long will I be this impossible suffering trapped in a person? If I’m telling the truth, a person is at least a hundred years sewn with many hands.

                                    A hundred years can push a universe of boats into the oceans and, when all the lives once known become unknown, lay everything of the oceans inside a gift box. And open it wide as soon as sealed.

                                                            It is as if someone waiting walks into the intensive care unit the eleventh time and exhales, You open your eyes with a whole heart again. Now see end after end, those things you depend on.

– B.B.P. Hosmillo