By Francine Witte
The street lamps, their hunched necks bowed in prayer, your car rust metal-red, dark as old blood, the porch with its raggedy wicker chair, where your grandfather sat for hours, the morning paper petaled into a flower at his feet. The smell of browning grass, musky and damp and overgrown. The sky since you left me, a bulge of rain, a cotton of clouds filled with the air they forgot to exhale.
Francine Witte’s poetry and fiction have appeared in Smokelong Quarterly, Wigleaf, Mid-American Review, and Passages North. Her latest books are Dressed All Wrong for This (Blue Light Press,) The Way of the Wind (AdHoc fiction,) and The Theory of Flesh (Kelsay Books.) Her chapbook, The Cake, The Smoke, The Moon (flash fiction), will be published by ELJ in Fall 2021. She is the flash fiction editor for Flash Boulevard and The South Florida Poetry Journal. She lives in NYC.