Slivers
By V. A. Bettencourt
flash
and fade
as you slice carrots with that
thing
with a blade.
Your hand reaches for something called
turmer… a powdery thing. Pretty, color of egg yolk like those
hens used to lay when you kept them in a shed
by the gnarled oak tree.
No trees here. You have a room with a kitchenette
in this bare apart…
away from all you once knew.
What was it
you once knew? The scent
of wet wood covered in moss as rivulets of rain
drift down your arms
a bonfire crackling on the beach as you run
with someone, a young man
who is he?
A tiny fist grasping your finger—
Lizzie—or is it Macie? Where’s the paper
where you wrote it?
Everything keeps slipping
stitches you let slide off a needle
without meaning to
& when you catch them
you see them but can’t tell
where they fit. Like the girl in a blue uniform
who said you’ll soon move to that unit
where there are no kitchenettes
& few words.
You’re jolted by an acrid scent
of that thing
that happens when food catches fire
charred carrots
buried in an orange anthill.
Who
would do such a thing?
V. A. Bettencourt writes poetry and short prose. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Magma Poetry, The American Journal of Poetry, Burningword Literary Journal, and West Trestle Review, among others.
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