1994 HOLY LAND

iii.

▇▇ HE SITS AT THE DOCK.

it is two in the morning. there are sounds
coming from the water. they sound like
screaming.

the old man told him, it's just the animals.
go back inside. you'll be safe in there.

and there's a question on his tongue, but
he bites in back and nods. but he knows it's
not the animals. it's never that. it never was.

he doesn't believe.

▇▇ "DON'T FEED THE WILDLIFE,"
is repeated constantly to him on a daily
basis.

it's on sundays at noon when the streets
were empty and the only sound was the
church bell. it attracted all the things deep
inside the woods, an invitation to infect
the town, layered to cover the sounds of
murder.

and he knows not to feed them. he doesn't.
no one hasn't trusted the animals for decades.

because they are not animals.

the birds are not birds, the deer are not deer,
the dogs are not dogs, and the cats are certainly,
not cats. he couldn't figure out what they are,
but he realized far too late that it would not
matter.

▇▇ HE SITS AT AN ARCHAIC DINER,
with a glass of peach tea on top a freshly
wiped cream-colored table, table napkins
with salt and pepper shakers held against
the wall on the side. there's a fan going at
its highest speed, yet it is still so hot.

of course, he doesn't remember ordering the
tea. it just came to him, maybe. his memory
has been failing him lately. he thinks it's the
lack of sleep. he takes a sip.

sweet, tangy – then sour, then rotten.

and he ignores the way the tea tastes like
copper and how the waitress watches his every
move with still, unblinking eyes.

a realization settles deep in his bones, but it
isn't from the strange taste of the tea.

he is alone.

why is no one else here?