HER WORDS, NOT MINE

BY JOHNNY CUELLAR

“if we find ourselves
on a dead island
still flying around the sun
yet no longer moving,

it’s that men
and women both
became
the judge
jury
prosecutor
defendant
victim
guilty
innocent,

and executioner

all wrapped up in
one package held together—

a bottle full of flames
with a loose cork
and some wire.

and our beautiful blue marble
will fade away
screaming
in slow motion.

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