Aztec Books by Austin Briggs
No I-95, not this time.
My pencil trembles over thin west-bent lines.
Circles names like Darlington, Dublin, and New Hope.
I imagine quiet blue orchards and hilltop schools. Cottaged main streets I might have paraded down. Church girls I might have married.
New York and D.C. look like gun chambers now.
I-95, a steel blur.
“Make sure you sit in the middle.”
“Yes,” the boy said
“Here.” The man fixed the small backpack. “Now look at me.”
The boy turned.
“This is for your family,” he whispered. “For Him.”
The boy crossed the street and boarded the bus. Through the window, his father crossed himself.
Shattering and screams.
Hell everywhere.
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