Agana Na Quay Do

Peace you’d die for

Danielle Shutt

Maybe you’re right, heaven will be a hurricane that moves at your command. Young monuments fall from obelisk to granite curds. Love notes form huddles of pulp. This is an american storm: the night vision green, the breath you hear— not knowing if it’s heaven’s or from the bodies starched in fear-sweat along the shore. A storm to take out every asshole who ever double-bagged a loaf of bread or told you this won’t hurt.