Updated: Sep 28, 2020
here and then gone,
blinding flash of light. when i returned to a silent home of longing, i howled at the moon for her, made it
crack in half. i have been tired and fading, dear lord, and though i saw little of her, she was the
brightest bulb in the sky. i plugged her head into the audio jack and tried to make sense of what i heard, but all i got was snow: signal lost, connection
dropped. this town weeps for lack of wonder. the entire body of us feels it, quiet
sinkhole. although i have seen fists punch straight through walls, vessels to the
rage within the skin, even now, i am not the fists and i am not
the walls. she lives underground and
we are here, testaments to grief's appetite. he has been and always will be a
growing boy, the toughest weed in the garden.
Abigail Diaz is an aspiring poet. She has been practicing fiction for five years and poetry for two. Currently, she has had poetry published in The Sheepshead Review, Rock & Sling, The Ear Literary Journal, and the San Antonio Public Library 2019 Young Pegasus Anthology. She is currently a freshman in college and is majoring in English, with hopes of publishing poetry and fiction full-time.