Gustava Santa Ana for the Anthropocene

Gustava Santa Ana in his jail cell
Patron Saint of the Lost and Forgotten
Antigua, Guatemala

Amid the thunder, rumble, pops, crackles, rips, hisses, thuds, cracks, bangs, shots and blasts exploding all around Alligator Creek tonight for fucking hours now, the cacophony of Fourth of July firework celebrations, and the shouted refrains of a drunken, late night domestic argument drifting over the creek—

there are creatures outside—more than I know—frogs—insects—alligators—telegraphing one another through the blighted dark—croaking—buzzing—an occasional growl—and a bird repeating a tuneless descending one note whistle. Perhaps they are assuring each other that it will be, they will be, okay?

I'm here . . . I'm here . . . we are still here . . .