She came out of the woods
with nothing but a blanket
sprayed with white and silver paint
horribly smudged from the tears
streaming down her face;
pale, voice silent, and smile gone.
I have to get up early tomorrow,
he muttered, standing there
with a look of puzzlement
and a large rat in his hand
by way of presenting credentials.
She seethed into transformation.
Lantern light threw twisting shadows
upon my countenance, revealing
horribly scarred and bloated wings
with patches of hair missing.
He rushed against the tissue paper.
One recovers slowly from such a shock
Keep your hands up and turn to face the wall,
I said, putting my finger on his mouth.
The rhetoric was mainly romantic,
no real emotion in it. As the elevator
crept downward we became very close,
accentuated by loud chords on the soundtrack.
F. J. Bergmann is the poetry editor of Mobius: The Journal of Social Change (mobiusmagazine.com). She lives in Wisconsin and fantasizes about tragedies on or near exoplanets. Her work has appeared in Asimov’s SF, Polu Texni, Soft Cartel, Spectral Realms, Vastarien, and elsewhere. She thinks imagination can compensate for anything.
