Chloë Joan López
chlo'jo'lo'
A War to Fight

A dog has decided it wants to die on my front porch.

You can never trust the rain, you know? The city-dwellers huddle down, and their icy bones remind me of-- what? I am reminded of their ancestors, huddling in just the same way, wary and stoically embittered. They would not light themselves a fire, and they chased most of us out. We're trickling our way back in, however. Us divinities, I mean.

The city-dwellers are still huddling. I want to throttle them, you know, but some days, like today, I hardly believe that I exist. I can't explain pain. I can't explain why it hurts. I can't explain why I need what I seem to. I can't really say that it makes any difference one way or the other. If all the goddesses and gods died tomorrow, the ones who would notice would die the day after next, but the universe and the huddling spiritual ascetics would simply abide.