Her quiet friend visits and will not leave. His coat is held in place with pins and his makeup runs when she touches a damp hand to his face. While she sleeps her bag is packed and placed outside the door. God will sweep the leaves from her eyes if she will ask.
Wild daisies pressed inside a young woman’s diary as if she knew they mean Farewell. By Labor Day, copperheads give birth and frost grapes come full. She looks up from her place on earth. Pale sky of water-stained tiles, nine dark stars apiece.
The handsome couple strolls the summer beach, admiring the endpapers of the sea. The past dissolves behind them, a tern’s cry swept away by the surf. Her trim legs, his sheen. She imagines them clearly while having supper with the others, feet burning inside her paper shoes.
Stephen Knauth | Frederica >> Contents | Mudlark No. 45 (2012)