Written by Allison Riechman-Bennett
Art by Allison Riechman-Bennett
Unfurl my warranted design and point towards each pen stroke that never served you.
The snow in March was still of ice, freezing petals edging fall fast on their branches.
A death toll stamps the ears of young deer across the highway rather than the sirens you’d expect in late May.
The scientist’s love of lye stained into his cuticles and danced in the bubbles of the bath for the daughter whom he’d never bathe.
The snow in March was still of ice, though sinking through the dirt at first touch.
The church bells ring for union and burial, both still for love.