Blessed be the humble and the god-like both, the alpha and omega. Blessed be the song of one axon plucked and blessed be the monster truck with red jaws painted on it. Blessed be Jaws himself growling overtop the other monster truck like one hand crushing bubble wrap. Yet another victim of a carefree life. Blessed be all such victims. Blessed be the ones whose teeth fall out from being hit too hard. Blessed be the grandpas and grandmas who are hit too hard, like towers falling. Blessed be the grandparents and bright-eyed between them, in the bucket seat, Aunt Joy. Who listened as the world buckled like two white cliffs calving in the surf. Blessed be the drunk who hit them hard and the guttering of their hearts. And any final words. Not the punched-out blesséd screams rippling across the surface of the motley crowd, but the last unspoken words still slipping along a synapse like a white flag pinned to a rope.

Justin Rigamonti

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