Alone, back upright, cross-legged I sit in front of a blackboard and look into my future.
I just recently learned to cross my legs.
As a child, in white blouse and blue pleated skirt, I sat, knees together.
As a young woman, in a loose white cotton gown opened at the back, I first learned to spread my legs, just a bit, for my health, the Doctor said.
As a lover, my warm skin basted with sweat, I extended my legs and moaned in sync with the spasms of my thighs.
As a wife, hands mined a life from my vault and I cursed my husband. Never again, I thought and threw out my calico dresses.
Today, I enter this classroom, sit and begin to follow the white signs on the blackboard that will lead to my future.
I sit alone, legs crossed, back upright like a raised nail and dare anyone to hammer me down.
Notice the horizontal divisions between upper and lower eyelids? Bedroom eyes. They filter the invading light armed with crude images, sound and colour.
Notice the mouth, opened in awe that, like a sluice, discharges unprocessed images, like slag from a smelting pot, still struggling to solidify into some recognizable pattern.
Two parallel currents, finite in scope, rush adamantly upward. A third enters from below and changes course to align itself parallel to the other two. Whether forced to conform to the existing flow or consciously redirecting itself to mimic its partners, the result is the same: the channel has broadened.
Mark Russo, born January 1, 1950 in Queens, New York City, New York. As a student of the University of Cincinnati he focused on the Greek, Latin, German, and French languages and World Literature. After running the family business for 20 years, he graduated from the University of Maine School of Law and was accepted to the Bar in 2002. He practiced Immigration Law in the State of Maine for over 18 years. He has published stories with Flash Fiction Magazine, New Reader Magazine, 34th Parallel Magazine, Knot Magazine, Literally Stories and Potato Soup Journal.
The Ekphrastic Review
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