Tomorrow is too
late. I’ve been listening
to the ground lick its
lips, laying plans to close
on your heart. To beat
the earth, brown
batter, to bake a
funeral bread. To
leave me hungry.
Yet we eat. We eat
and weep and fill ourselves
with songs we sang
when we were young,
before we thought
these things, unthinkable.
Jason Brightwell lives in a tiny resort town tucked away on the shore of Maryland’s Chesapeake Bay where he finds himself routinely haunted by one thing or another. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in journals including: Gravel Magazine, Phantom Kangaroo, and The Tower Journal, among others.
Photo by Aurelien Thomas on Unsplash
