| Author | Message | ||
| M
Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3788 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Degas Exhibit, Edinburgh Laurie Byro While he was in the shop choosing prints for his apartment, she plied next to the statue— bronze ballerina in taffeta, 1899 Back in the States, her husband, tended grass they’d grown for the cats. It was February. There were black gnats in the air because of the forced leap from dormancy. She arched her feet, felt the pull against tendon, calve muscles strained in her tights. She was too old to return to bloodied cotton, pink satin sick with remembered stain. On the train back, she shadowed him. Blue smoke spiraled like legs from his cigarette. It was a dark ride, the train surrounded by old forest. Drunken men sang “Sweet Caroline.” She asked him twice the time, longed to be asleep on his narrow couch. Wheels rumbled, undigested beneath the merry bowels of steel. |
