People took a chisel to some bedrock to show their love. Initials inside a heartcontainer. No undoing that gesture.
How selfish to have her daughter stand at the top of the waterfall, when the view is really from the bottom. The water just slips over the bedrock and is gone. At the bottom, where water hits water, foams white, sprays green, digs out rock and makes a cave—that’s where the mother stands.
That’s where the dog stands too, in the constant spray. Many things go wrong in the brain and maybe that’s one of them. The joy I mean.
The mother: wet and cruel. The daughter: dry and bored. The dog: joyful and wet.
The daughter kicks the carved initials. She digs her heel into the heart.
The firmament windows blue. Catches birds, releases them. Unlovely in its expansive arch. Unlovely because that’s where the mother looks half the day, looks up through the prism of water. Half the day at the dog.
The daughter arches her eyes up. Catches the bodies that fall in the firmamen
Unsaid awarded Kate Wyer the "Joan Scott Memorial Award" and nominated her for a Pushcart. Her work has appeared in Wigleaf, Moonshot,
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