Collapse into Spaces
She sees the whites as the same in the morning
but by nightfall they are bone and cream.
The eyes are drawn to the black:
a vacuum of space separating the sets
of equal threes framed.
In a mirror reflecting back are sides of the
cobalt scarf flanking her neck and
running down her shoulders.
The two even ends collect at the
center slowly constricting the
tube that takes the air in and down.
The days swell then collapse into spaces--
the constant pain of motherhood
unpunctuated and linear as it races
and stretches toward the daffodil sun.
And I can still see the sudden red flush of her cheeks
when your scream came through the back window
and sent her running from the
house and into the adjacent field for you.
Brian Muriel is a high school English teacher in Naperville, Illinois where he lives with his wife and young sons. His work has appeared in Big Whoopie Deal and is forthcoming in La Piccioletta Barca, Prometheus Dreaming, and The Magnolia Review.
The Ekphrastic Review
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