by Lorette C. Luzajic The seagrass, like woodcut lines zigzagging across the dark water. Rippling cords all tangled in the shallows like some kind of labyrinth. The soft moon illuminates a hushed halo over her brow. Sometimes she wails for her drowned child and the eerie sound fills up the whole world. Sometimes there is mere silence. No wind, no waves. I crawled off of the same shore, the epigenetic trauma of hate and war. Want spun through and through my story. Like a ghost, I wandered after her, needy and damaged and desperate, tugging at her silk nightgown, begging her to see me. * * * Lorette C. Luzajic reads, writes, edits, publishes, and teaches flash fiction and prose poetry. She is the founding editor of The Ekphrastic Review and The Mackinaw.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Follow us on Instagram
Categories
All
Archives©2024 THE HOOLET'S NOOK.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. |