Sarah Maclay

Issue #
September 6, 2013

Late Summer

Night had snuffed out its own stars—
even deep in the country.

The porch light was on, a little harsh,
against this backdrop of nothing.

You could see the two of them
talking—earnestly. And pondering,

his eyes the color of People Magazine.
Her thought poured into her mouth—

a slight snag twisted it. Their friends
had taken to constant marketing—

of themselves. He could barely drive
for the over-stimulation. Time had been

disabled, momentarily.
What he would remember most about her

was the look on her face—the way
thought stopped her face from flowing,

knotted it—
that and the look of her shins,

almost shiny in the night air,
like the underbelly of a fish—

a trout, coming up from the cold lake
water, glistening in the dark wind.

There is no previous item
Go back to Top Menu
There is no next item
Go back to Top Menu