KYSO Flash
Knock-Your-Socks-Off Art and Literature
Issue 3: Spring 2015
Poem: 125 words


by Jenna Bazzell
Tonight the moon is one working headlight. 

The houses shy away from the roads, 
                                             huddle together, afraid 
of crows perched on streetlamp crossbars, 
                                            the traffic lights revolting. 

I wake beside my mother, her eyes swollen shut. 

She wears white and flutters by like plaster dust 
                                                        too far above me, 
her gown draped over her forearms. 

She is a grapevine coiled around a post, a spider’s web spun
in the darkest corner, soggy leaves rotating wildly 
                                                        in a pebbled shallow creek

rushing swift. She reminds me of every clay-flung hour, every rutted 
washboard road. Death must be like this: a glass slipping from hand 

to floor, my veins becoming roots of sycamores, and her song, 

her song becoming ash, turning into paste in my mouth.

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