Stay Close By Lee Ginton
Lilacs By Meg Reynolds Across a twilit yard, I stepped barefoot into the neighbor’s grass to pilfer lilacs through Adelbert Twitchell’s fence without disturbing his chickens. This, the first time I stole anything besides a wedding dress from the Barbie doll that belonged to my neighbor’s son: flowers and an hour outside my mother’s eye. In wind they wavered on the boughs. I thrust both my arms into the bush, up to the shoulder, to blindly snap the blossoms down. They fell to the ground in amethyst hushes. Standing in a plastic cup at my bedside, all night their sweet, heavy musk stitched into my hair and the darkness.
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