the destroyer > text > Florencia Varela


I tell you as much as I do.
For months, I take the long way home
switch trains more than I should
believing in an afterlife as if it were
a delay in commute or a leap
of thought—passing stations
and considering them seasons.
Winter after mild weeks, mousy
even, moving through the vents
like an illness, believing
the afterlife comes before
an illness. For months,
people in black paying respects
at the funeral home downstairs.
I say for months because time
should have limits—their flowers
only last a few days. Winter will leave
and one day the wind won’t take
you as much. I do as much
as I tell you. You see, wind doesn’t
actually move anything.
We undo as much as we make believe.
If you ever wondered where your
flowers go, know they line
the hallways of my building.