They Leave
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The mother tide goes out. And stays.
Sends me a text. Three emojis:
Yellow hand waving.
Palm tree.
Palm tree.
Fish rot on the desert floor, and the
Smell of old ashtrays
Fills my ears with the hollow
Wringing of gnarled hands.
The bloody moon sails away.
It’s me not you, and the
Hole in the sky still weeps sticky tears.
Come see, but the
Guests are mannikins
Trapped in their chairs forever.
No one does the dishes.
I tried to step off, once or twice
Eons ago, but the anguish of the
World left
Imprints in my doughy skin.
Held me fast.
Our scars might fit, I cry, but
Only the crows will listen.
Babies are the worst.
One blink and they've crashed the
Ship. Stepped onto a newsworthy plane.
Stopped answering their phone.
Jesus, Dad. It died. No big deal.
The tooth fairy skips your house, and
Dusty presents scream from the
Empty living room.
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Garth lives in Portland, Oregon, with his super-genius sweetie-pie, three precocious grown children, and five enthusiastic chickens. His work has appeared in Clarkesworld Magazine, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Bristol Noir, and other fine venues. He has an MA in Theoretical Mathematics and loves carving spoons, bicycling, and curling up with a good book.
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