I wash you with a serengeti paint brush.
I turn the time we had into a rectangle.
Meaning, I give it edges…
then soften it, with savanna light.
We wrestle in the long golden grass.
The earth breathes out ecstatically
clouds of crickets and gold dust.
I turn us into lion cubs.
I turn your gripes into growls
your come-ons into mewls
your gasp into a roar…
then I leave. I go only a short way.
I trot across the plain.
I turn 10 years distance into 10 feet.
I never meant farther than that.
I build a frame of gilded edges around regret.
René Ostberg is a native Chicagoan who still resides in Illinois. She writes a travel blog called Writing and Wayfaring (www.writingandwayfaring.
–Art by Marta Bevacqua
–Art by Alphan Yýlmazmaden
–Art by Seamus Travers
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