ghosts, deception i. never is such a very long time. i saw you again at the grocery store—somewhere between the dried beans and sugar you had grown young, a woman moving backward in time with the ease of a film reel, spinning silently through the final winter of ice and stick trees back to spring, to the beginning when the green shoots ached for heaven. i stopped by the spices, and quicker than sound you were gone. ii. the somber magician of flickering tea lights has tipped his hand, marked cards obvious as bone on green velvet. how foolish i felt at the séance. iii. in dreams you return. beneath a tangerine sun on the longest car ride, we talk and we talk and i have since forgotten all but your laughter speeding through light.
Prey The marble is slow to roll and for the hare, simple prey, the only thing to do is wait beneath the curved blue sky of the snow globe: soundless, the sunlight captured in a field of merry green and painted hills beyond reach, as though a rabbit had any need for art.
two girls buy the world kaleidoscope in a sherbet world, to spin at the freewheeling edge of the paper cut holding hands with a forbidden girl— there is so much oxygen in this bright space, so many sounds as the celestial spheres trade stories, rushing to touch. (the price is high) only let me remain as captive or captain, as undeniable as spring at death’s door with pink blossoms in hand for the spectre himself.
Photography Credit: Jason Rice
Rose Oston’s background is in English Education and Counseling, so she could happily listen to people talk about their favorite books all day. Her work has been published in North Country Journal.
