The Meadow Annual Literary Arts Journal 2020

Trickle-Down Semantics C.C. Russell Conversations broken by the wind. A paper bag jigs through the frame. We are stunned and modified by this light. We find ourselves empty and so we eat. We eat until we are sick. The plaintive wail coming from a car stereo— a tinny sort of melodramatic pop and a shushing susurration underneath the gusts. The stars that we were born under have shifted. We have changed our last names. We are seed plumes now, floating across an unrealistically blue sky. We are pollen, dust. 198 The Meadow