Annie Technicolor stretched out like an August Wednesday; dipped finger tips in the small puddle of chocolate milk. A short, fuzzy cross running dead tributaries at her hem.
fingerprints
on a mirror
naming the scapegoat
Her parents wore gardening gloves. Father held a spade; mother dragged a potting soil bag of drugs. Annie’s nose pinched, head tilted, a mouth filled with medical topsoil. Body slowly sinking into linoleum.
Good catholic girls who dream of rosaries always learn Latin at the damnedest moments.
The tiny crawl space where they worked through Annie’s growing season was wet with Time Square street smells. Father picked at scabs nerving and curving up his arm. Mother clutched at Annie’s stain. An overturned bookshelf looks like an altar or a raised garden bed.
hunger strike
War cry
with a throatful of seeds
Jim Warner’s work has appeared in various journals including The North American Review, RHINO, Hobart, No Tokens, and New South. He teaches in the MFA program at Arcadia University. Jim serves as host of the literary podcast Citizen Lit. His latest poetry collection, Actual Miles was released in 2018 by Sundress Publications. You can find Jim on Twitter @whoismisterjim
© 2018 Jim Warner. Published by LITTLE FICTION | BIG TRUTHS, November 2018.
Images from The Noun Project (credits: Prasad).
THE 2018 FLASH ISSUE:
