His left wrist dangled out the half-wound-down glass of a boxy brown Cadillac with red felt seats. Flies drifted in and out. He had a dip top cone in his hand. The place was famous for them. You’d think it would be melting in the heat, but the molten chocolate shell held the ice cream within firm and cold. The air reeked of gasoline. No one had thought to turn the engine off.
Jesus’ Body Found Outside Ice Cream Parlor in Black Suburb
April 24, 2026
Issue 31, Issue 31 Poetry, Poetry
