| The sun isn’t even a pearl today— its light diffused, strained gray by winter haze—this the grayest day so far, so when I enter the Wells Fargo parking lot the last thing I expect is to see the sun in the car next to mine. I watch a woman make out with the sun, and I’m jealous of the sun. Beautiful beyond her desire—wanting the sun so—she almost glows as she tugs sweetness from his whiskers with her teeth, and his drool runs down her chin. I think the sun is a man, but it’s hard to tell in this light. No, it’s a mango, and I’m jealous of her. Copyright © 2015 by Sean Hill. Used with permission of the author. |
No comments:
Post a Comment