Scent of Plumeria, and the smell of burning. Not one or the other, but both. Destruction, and the blossom. Sweetheart, I'm afraid. That boy with the rifle breaks the catechism in two. And in two. Let me see us whole, beside the sea. My body busy, paying attention to yours. Already we rock each other with our voices. Already we're braiding the invisible cord. That burning hut on T.V. isn’t ours, but could be. My body could be hers, child at dead breast. That blossom of blood and bone could be your face.
