By Colette Parris
It fell abruptly, a ball of heat and heartbreak, more orange than yellow, both symbol and substance. Only Mercury, who had sixth-sensed an imminent defection, was able to keep up. No time to grab dogs and iPhones and emergency water bottles, to point at the slack-jawed moon. Not enough breath to say what just happened or I love you or I forgive you or I do not forgive you. Just an absence of warmth, an immediate unmooring, a blanking of the mind. How lucky we were at the end of the world. How undeserving of that quick and soundless exit.
Colette Parris is a Caribbean-American attorney who returned to her literary roots during the pandemic. Her poetry and prose can be found in Streetlight Magazine, Vestal Review, BigCityLit, Thin Air Magazine, Lunch Ticket, Burningword Literary Journal, and elsewhere. Her fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She lives in Westchester County, New York. Read more at coletteparris.com.
MoonPark Review 