Listen to the Codex

Did she ever use that word? You couldn’t hear the – and her sister. Her brother died – answer, or the word, but the tone was forceful. And her sister. The Mayan god kept a record. How did he decide the code? Each family’s land and crops. Was it her sister who jumped off the highway 15 and 10 crossover bridge? In Ontario at rush hour? The freeway blended from cinnamon clouds to an icy wing. She could fly to the grid. By marking an X inside each rectangle. Dashes next to the rectangle indicated adult family members. The air felt like piercing rain. Was it because her brother died? Is there a word for these emotions? Dots showed the children. Ice held her close. Have you used it? Sirens and helicopters non-stop. Propellers over your studio sounded like they would come into the vibrating room. Too cloudy and humid for a fire. With his shield and arrows he protected the land of maize. The roadway paper. Until the foreigners came in rough deception and tore his people. You couldn’t hear the answer. He kept a record. Life ended before the fates cut the thread. The rare blue pigment he used on the last page of the codex hidden in a cave survived. A forceful tone.