SLOW FALL ELEGY
Oct 23
1 min read
By Laila Amado
The coming plague is an unbridled horse.
Hoofs beat the ground.
Spit bubbles on its lips and flies,
sharp acid sting devouring the borders
and turning bodies into so much mulch
to feed the mushrooms.
God plays the trumpet in the sky.
Ash falls again.
Streets are quiet
in the early hours
TV lights up
Blue and forlorn
it broadcasts nothing.
Tea is too sweet
Sun burns
Wind festers
with sodden pollen
from infected fields.
Rum sloshes
at the bottom of the barrel.
Faded shirts
wave their lilac sleeves
from rusted wires
stretched across the yard.
The future came and saw the house empty.