This Evening’s Run
A broken wall,
corpse-branches,
and I know there’s
something under that log,
coming out from the drain
that sits in its cloud.
And it’s so quiet
before the next song.
Daddy please come home,
it’s dark and I don’t like it
Way down upon the Swanee River
Far, far away…
My Turkish Step-Great-Grandmother
she’s walked slowly to where her daughter’s
carried two deckchairs through the while
it took her to get down the hot steps.
you could mistake her for a child,
with that floppy white hat for shade.
and she always has that dressing gown on,
and she seemed just as old, five years
ago, when I saw her last before this.
she turns. I hope she doesn’t come
too close to me. I’d try good morning
in her language but after that
there’s nothing to talk about for us.
humming a song I think I’ve heard
she smells a pink rose, and walks back.
Andrew Wells is a writer who has been featured in Ink Sweat & Tears, Cyberhex Journal, and HARK Magazine, among others. He’s the founding editor of Haverthorn Magazine. He takes his coffee black with no sugar, and hates cycling.
Fauna Quarterly 