Loneliness Naked on the Grass The collagist cuts precisely around her edges careful not to damage hair, fingers, skin, vulnerable as a snail without shell, a pale tree whose outer bark has peeled. She won’t be needing clothes or shoes. He offers her a pillow, searches his files for the perfect bed of grass. He pastes her down. She must look away from the castle. She doesn’t belong inside stone walls feasting on stuffed swan, peacock, mutton and tarts–banquets of the wealthy. She doesn’t hunger, almost like a mannequin, a gift for men. But he wasn’t thinking of them. No one will question his intentions, a reclining nude is the tradition. His scissors hiss as he cuts out contents for the basket: a newborn. He never meant to harm her daughter. He was poor all his life, drawn to women beyond his touch. Haven’t you ever wanted someone you couldn’t have? Carrie Albert Carrie Albert is a writer and visual artist. Sometimes these merge. Her works have been published widely in journals and anthologies, most recently: The Protest Diaries (B Cubed Press), Gyroscope Review, Sleet, Plumtree Homeless Edition and upcoming in Canticles and Spheres, Propertius Press. She lives in Seattle with her papier-mâché animals.
1 Comment
David Belcher
3/22/2023 04:49:02 am
I like the shift in tone, from focused on the task, to regretful, wistful. Fine attention to detail, too.
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July 2025
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