Seaside Gothic

Fiction | Poetry | Nonfiction

0
Your Cart

Driving Myself to the Cottage

Driving Myself to the Cottage by Ruth E. Walker

And just like that what I knew like the back of my hand
is no longer the back of my hand
strangers hang at the ends of my wrists
blue-veined evidence rises with each pulse
brown spots carve decades and indulgences
etched in thinning membranes and fissures
deepened in dry skin and thick callouses
an Empress of ice-cream melts
away what was once
what have I become, now
a salted shadow self and generational deposit
soon to sit in fading imagery and dusted off
for family crowds and celebrations
I can only imagine