Once she’d opened it, she knew,
there would be no going back.
So she let it wilt like a wildflower
in her hand, and took another sip,
gazing at a world stained blue
and green by delicate bottles, carefully
arranged along the windowsills.
She looked at them with loathing.
What she’d imagined: Freedom.
No connections to anchor her to history,
except a lingering sense of beforeness
rippling and reflecting off the water.
Most days, she ventured north or south
along the shore, the sand a blank page
embossed with a single set of footprints.
From far off in the distance,
a ringing, insistent, intrusive as
a late-night motorist seeking directions.
At last, the curtain was about to rise
on the well-rehearsed performance
in which they would burst into flames
— a long distance crash and burn —
and days would pass before
there was news of any survivors.
© 2020 by Hannah Six
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