[Sin título]
by Alicia PrezaUntitled
by Alicia PrezaWe were playing for a while. We pulled the trigger then aimed. We laughed too much without a drop of alcohol. Our substance doesn’t exist. Jaime’s harmonica is mussed in fear and yokes to a groan. Suddenly thunder is heard. The bullet perforated the closet and further in our animal, the only kind that could be with us without mewing, that which still tightens further in and in its twining wound the knot that conforms us in this radio room spattered by the same transmitter that is not about to click off but burns alone. That cyclical way of looking at ourselves in the mirror not on the wall. It’s a reflection that shows a fragment of our beading nape. The implosive seed deflects each reflection. And we are all one in multiples of threes with the wrong face at the opening. It’s ringing now. We look at each other sideways. It’s two in the morning. The sheets the repeated pool.