KILLING METHODS Outside, after grieving for days, I’m thinking of how we make stories, pluck them like beetles out of the air, collect them, pin their glossy backs to the board like the rows of stolen beauties, dead, displayed at Isla Negra, where the waves broke over us and I still loved the country, wanted to suck the bones of the buried. Now, I’m outside a normal house while friends cook and please and pour secrets into each other. A crow pierces the sky, ominous, clanging like an alarm, but there is no ocean here, just tap water rising in the sink, a sadness clean of history only because
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