[suitcase]
by Justin Petropoulos
A martial-style curfew whispers across the city. Street lights strobe but even the trees are still. The ambulance service stops to listen. There are rumors. Insurgents have painted themselves the color of rubble. Relax, remember to breathe. Mopping up operations are underway.
A news conference follows, presided over by a man indicated entirely by squares, struggling with a candle. “Today simply doesn’t exist,” the man says. “The price of corn has achieved record breaking proportions.”
Your troubles disperse like soapsuds; grenades splinter through windows. But if you act calm, you will be calm. A suitcase decorates his hand, but of her arms, their weight, he keeps no memories. Cigarette loots toward his lips while dragonflies stitch themselves steadily through the dark.
