by Brent Fisk
The crepe myrtle snows hot pink blossoms into the backyards of cotton-haired widows. Green clothesline is abandoned to mourning doves and in their kitchen windows, green glass bottles hide dead flies. Some nights when a storm comes knocking through their knees, they rise and limp to the porch. Dig a stale cigarette from the shredded pocket of a house coat and strike a red match against the stone foundation. In the dark, the wind comes up and drives away the smoke. They shift in the shadow of the thrashing leaves, alive again in their skins, the betrayal of bones grown small as the hot tip of a cigarette.
Brent Fisk, author of Honeymoon Period, is a three-time Pushcart nominee who recently won an honorable mention in Boulevard's Emerging Poets contest. His work has appeared in Mimesis, Rattle, Fugue, and Southern Poetry Review among other places.