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my mother sends me text messages every few days, assuring me that god loves me and will continue to love me despite the hardships bestowed upon my path. my intention is to text her back — but instead i turn the volume up on the television and open another beer. 

on sundays i wake up righteous. the bible i keep beneath my bed makes its way to the desk where i partner isaiah with a can of red bull and incur my hands unto god’s love and wrath.


i pray in english and confess in spanish, and with fearful candor I attempt an explanation for why i’ve been absent from the seat that has been set for me inside the house up the street. 

i tell god, with all sincerity in my aching voice, that it’s been a hectic week with work and the pandemic and all, that i’d meant to say something earlier 

instead of cancelling last minute, like i always do. 


this morning i spat sand into the washbasin, stared into murky brown eyes, 

and entertained the idea of bathing in fire. 


aren’t you cold? she asks as i wipe spilt beer from the bench next to her.


my california blood keeps me warm, i retort with a smile. 


that doesn’t make any sense, she says. 


yeah. i know

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