The secrets came in a variety of colors. A deep russet seemed to be the most popular. Those who couldn’t afford them moved about in a bereft fog. There was no telling how long this would go on. A few brave souls mocked the craze with creative phrasing and much guttural noise. But the majority rule rode in like a stampede and nature took its sorry course. Libraries became halls of shame. Letters fell from words like broken bricks. And the words became whispers, the whispers, sour fog.
Unanchored sky goes blue-gray dizzy, a score of black wings tracing east. An all day shovel of clouds with a smatter of rain, the trees shiny then. How to dissect the hours,
this April day chilled and suspended. The girl at the window waits for nothing she can claim. Gazes at new greens next to moss while the world in its wet shiver is not more or less to her weariness. In a wedge of shadow, she hopes for a squall, a shatter, some wildness that might repair the rips at which she frets, fingers at a wet wound.
Mercedes Lawry has published poetry in such journals as Poetry, Nimrod, Prairie Schooner, Poetry East, The Saint Ann’s Review, and others. Twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize, she’s published two chapbooks, most recently “Happy Darkness”. She’s also published short fiction, essays and stories and poems for children. She lives in Seattle.