My father was born. The pressed leaves of Limerick brushed from the crib. A mirage shimmers over the pond. Ships and flags and trucks. Red brick stoops on analog streets. Lamps on the corners.

We move and it is 30 years later. Soon the crushed leaves of New York gather. The east coast bleeds in tides, rushing us over the Plains.

In the West, we dry in the momentary sun, then open our mouths for the never-ending rain.

Comments

Want to comment? Login or Join

Login Sign up
1
CraigTowsley over 11 years ago

Melodious. Thumbs Up!

mroshaugh (joined over 11 years ago)
Visit Website

Veteran of the 90s zine revolution.
Spreading myself thin over blogs, Twitter, FB, etc.
Favorite authors include David Markson, Lydia Davis, Robertson Davies, Donald Barthelme and Richard Brautigan.

No favorites

Story information

License

Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0

genres

memoir poetry

Contact


We like you. Say "Hi."