The Meadow Annual Literary Arts Journal 2020

The sundress I bought to match yours, stained red. The wine I spilled when you got sloshed and called me by someone else´s name. Cheap souvenirs from exotic places, displayed on shelves and tables. The empty spaces between, a map of lands we would never explore. The crushed shell of a snail, its body smeared across the pavement. I could have spared the critter, but release oftentimes requires sacrifice. The Meadow 195