Aftermath of a Picnic I spent hours sitting in a quarry with the memory of my sister. We both pick flowers and shake them. The weeds look like theyâ€™re dressed in shawls. We pour tea and pass blossoms back and forth. We place petals on our tongues and sugar. There is the sound of rain Like someone at the backdoor. Whether or not someone is there, This cloud must pass eventually. She volunteers for the future. She holds out a dusted petal. Try this one, itâ€™s delicious. What does it taste like? Annihilation.
POETRY | 81
Fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, and art selected for our 2019 contest issue.