The house has the empty feeling cleanliness or new death brings.
She touches her neck. Her heart like a leaf scared by the wind.
The wind presses against the window panes
She turns to the other side of the pillow, imagining her pupils like two broken, erratic lenses, like two puddles on a country road to nowhere with a sky, like skull sockets dark as death—death always. Death that makes and diminishes all our gods.
She reaches to her husband's side of the bed.
He isn't there.
Finish reading "The Lightning Tree" by Erin Pringle-Toungate in the anthology Box of Delights, published by Dublin's Aeon Press.
