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When Bessie Went To Pasture (peeling gray skies) |
by Korliss Sewer
The tick of the fan was enough of a distraction. She tries to drown him
in laundry detergent, but his scent is interwoven within the fibers
of his work. The clothes would never be clean: of him.
People do not speak as they write. His tongue paints love across smooth,
patient skin: he spells "love" as if it were a four-letter word. His words fall empty into a water-logged field.
Her patience wears thins: like waiting at a red light when no one is around. A fruit which is rotten from the inside out; a skin stripped of years with her paring knife in thin layers. To have had enough: of him.
Korliss Sewer has been published in The Orange Room Review, Sunken Lines, and Gutter Eloquence. She is an English Literature graduate from the University of Washington, and loves to sip wine while watching the world go by.
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