Culture  Are You There, Sappho? It’s Me, Margaret

Niagara By Willa Holt

I turn to set the pan on the stove and the sun is like a lover on my back,
so warm I close my eyes like a calico and when I reach in my mind I can
feel her fingers brushing my shoulder, steadying me with her warm orange
glow, a thick slice of sky laced with church bells, a warm milky bath of light.

 

Our Funeral By Kate Ellis

It is with a heavy heart that I announce that the love we once had died today. It was sudden, unexpected, but should have been anticipated in a way that only God knows. We will not be lived on by anyone, not a single soul except for my mother, who tells me that you’re still the one over the dinner table when I say your name and she says that we’re “bad at being broken up,” as if it is a game that we are somehow supposed to be winning. Friends are asked not to call, family is begged to stay away from the private funeral, which will be held every day in my heart until the real one comes around. In lieu of flowers, send me the breath of fresh air that I have missed every day since you walked out of my life. Thank you.

 

Moving In By Ashley Cook

it’s nearing 7 in the morning and the air is in the negatives. my breath is condensed on the thin glass but the warmth doesn’t last long. stretching my limbs brings cracks and pops and strains and aches. my feet hit the hardwood, and I’m reminded of the way you looked at me the last time it was this cold. i shuffle along, avoiding the splinters and sinking into the hesitation of every contact. the feeble touches stick around no longer than the tiny pockets of hot air on my lips, no longer than the memory of yours on mine.