Still Blinking

Cornfield aluminum recycled communion wafers. We drank Gatorade wine from a stolen lunchbox, sat Indian style in the irrigation ditch, reciting Tool lyrics as scripture. My IPhone had a cracked screen, Her Android played only static and KORN. We smoked straw wrappers, wore hoodies like vestments. God, in the form of a substitute teacher, glassy eyed and smoked menthols. She named a dead bird “Ezekiel.” Buried it with her wedding ring underneath the bleachers behind the gym where someone graffitied “THIS IS NOT A revolution” the snow didn’t remember our names. Just a pager in her pocket, still blinking after the apocalypse