Wednesday 16 December 2020


by Charlotte Hamrick

City lights ride 

the shimmering air,
the horizon stretching

gray and purple,
drifting closer to home.
On the stoop

shadows of lace 
yawn beneath
our feet as we settle

into a quiet so deep 
there is no bottom,
no net to catch our fall.

How long
since our bodies

our voices
You stand, stretch, 

pull the door securely
behind you. I stir
my drink with a finger,

lick away moisture.
Trees sigh beneath 
the weight of dying leaves.

* * * * *

Charlotte Hamrick’s creative work has been published in numerous online and print journals, most recently including The Citron Review, Flash Frontier, and Emerge Journal and was a Finalist in Micro Madness 2020. She reads for Fractured Lit and was the former CNF Editor for Barren Magazine. She lives in New Orleans with her husband and a menagerie of rescued pets.

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