Divination

At dusk, the gods gather in the attics of trees, convening to determine whose bodies will shelter descendants and whose will be riddled with cancer. My brother’s marriage recently slumped to the carpet, a crumpled paper plane. Do you ever feel guilty for belly-laughing while our country bombs primary schools and drives trans folks to suicide? It is a gift not to know the ending before it begins. In the coffee table book about Colombia, a photo reveals a landscape creased like wrinkled skin. Like my mother’s hands, veiny and ancient as repentance.