The Moon's Eyelid

They have been speaking

for years, telling her who

she is and what she should do.

Mostly, she ignores them.

The new doctor asks

if she has a superpower

the doctor should be aware of.

She tells the doctor: The moon’s eyelid

is wide open tonight. I can see that much.

The doctor nods, makes a note in the chart.

A Mother's Lament

Light bulbs blew in room after room

while the houseplants withered and

died. I closed the window blinds

against the summer sun.

But I couldn’t block out the sounds

of the neighbors’ children. Their squealing

laughter interrupted my mid-day sleep,

and the high-pitched peals shattered

my glass dreams of holding tight

your small, live body.

© Ami Mattison

For G-Man's Friday Flash 55


Photo courtesy of cheishichiyo

Inevitable

I cleave to winter, unready

for the rains, washing away

all traces of the seasons we witnessed

together. My unclean palms pressed

in prayer, I am penitent, mumbling

offerings to the gods for second chances,

redemption from the ghost-bones of grief.

Late Winter, Detroit

Robins return

before spring

wraps warmth

around the city

the cold core

of abandoned fealty

thaws to mud

softens with songs

diverted

she’s high
on too much

coffee

too many

cigarettes

and no sleep

hands hard-wired

to the steering

wheel, she

accelerates

rounds

the mountain

curve

wonders

what if

she took

the metal barrier

with her