A Woman from the Past There are days you feel no more than scribbled upon the world. Maybe this is one of those days. Around you, even trees and grasses and patches of earth blur with smear and smudge. And maybe today, but just today, you become a woman from the past in a long blue dress, a modest dress. There’s a jaunty, yellow hat upon your gold- brown curls. You are disappearing bit by bit, starting with your hands, which keeps you from reaching out, keeps you from the apples, or peaches, or plums, or pears—anything in season. You stand motionless in afternoon sunlight, morning sunlight, the middle of the day when time is a fickle thing that makes all our edges indistinct. Your gaze is transfixed where no one else can see, a look of despair, or longing or even that quiet drift of thoughtlessness. And even though I have no way to prove it, I’m going to assume a flash of blue feathers in the distance, and all that’s left are twigs and leaves twitching after what they’ve lost. David B. Prather David B. Prather still lives a life of Sunday dinners and lawn mowing in Parkersburg, WV. He is the author of three poetry collections: We Were Birds (Main Street Rag, 2019), Shouting at an Empty House (Sheila-Na-Gig, 2023), and the forthcoming Bending Light with Bare Hands (Fernwood Press, 2024).
0 Comments
Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
Leave a Reply. |
The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
This site uses cookies to deliver your best navigation experience this time and next. Continuing here means you consent to cookies. Thank you. Join us on Facebook:
November 2024
|