Green.

 

Like the Mississippi River where the Rock River cuts the Rock Island Arsenal bridge in three. Like heavy clouds in that evening period when birds huddle in nests to await the next. When a single bat cuts sky too early for the mayfly too late for robin. Like threats of let loose. Like cover, like hands over mouths, like breath. Like heat. In eddies where remains of my best friend were bagged, after bound, after held, after down. Like heavy and shut. Like what I call God, what I call Heaven, what I call Green. Where sand holds ankle, promise, and anklet. Bones trace fern. Memory trace warning sign. I sit on the second truss, halfway suspended, awaiting the storm.

 

 

Dizzy.

 

stumbles to wall

catches with skin

slides to floor

 

He can feel Her.

He can feel Her.

He can feel Her.

There.

 

closes window

draws curtains

turns gold

into patina

into green

into oozing

scabs upon canvas

 

No surprises

He says

 

Or he doesn’t. Not with hands.

 

falls into child’s pose

canary knees exhausted

postulates to her to her to her

 

She watches him

until he falls asleep

 

Shoshana Tehila Surek

Shoshana Surek received her MA and MFA in Creative Writing from Regis University. Her essays, short stories, flash fiction, and poetry, can be read or are forthcoming in Carve Magazine, december Magazine, SmokeLong Quarterly, Malahat Review, Vestal Review, Cease, Cows, 3Elements Review, and f(r)iction Magazine. In 2017, She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize and she is a 2019 Curt Johnson Prose Award finalist. More of her work can be found at www.ShoshanaSurek.com.

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