He is gone and young women are nesting with bedsheets, necklaces, fairy lights stretched between sofas and closets for their secret lives. They make a picnic with cake and tea and rum, and show their art on the walls and windows: roses, faces, handwriting. I ask, where is the letter he left, and they laugh and point out color and design, light and shadow. There are bowls of fallen leaves, and leaves hung on fishing wire. Our bedroom window with the weedy garden and the shed broken into the morning I ran away. The thieves looked through the glass at us: we were naked by the sea, the leaves fell.
Ariel Dawn lives in Victoria, British Columbia. Recent writing appears in The Bohemyth, Ambit, Ginosko, Paper Swans, Black & Blue. She spends her time reading Tarot and poetic prose and writing a novella. @ariel__dawn