By Francine Witte
On an afternoon when the sun goes stone and thuds itself under the horizon, and the trees shake their veiny leaves like hands about to hit, and the bench nearby is a gather of slats holding up the elderly couple we were going to be, him spooning ice cream into her quivery mouth and not even minding the dribble. And then, over there, the children on swings, sailing the air as if practicing for a life of come and go. And right in the smacky center of that, is you sitting there, your eyes two blackened holes, your mouth telling me about the sometimes death of love.
Francine Witte’s latest publications are a full-length poetry collection, Theory of Flesh from Kelsay Books and the Blue Light Press First Prize Winner, Dressed All Wrong for This. Her flash fiction has appeared in numerous journals, anthologized in the most recent New Micro (W.W. Norton) and her novella-in-flash, The Way of the Wind was recently published by Ad Hoc Fiction. She lives in New York City.