by Maryam Shadmehr
Light,
pink
blossoms,
unruffled
by rough soles, dusted
the earth, which breathed as the virus
gnawed at our lungs and our voice drowned in meadowlark songs,
celebrating our quarantine.
A skirt of colors,
scattered on
the wall,
sun–
light.
Light–
headed,
we listened.
Weekend gatherings
stripped down to their core. Family
breakfasts sprang up because buses stopped showing. That year,
on the beach, waves left brilliant
white foam, and the sea,
translucent,
mirrored
the
Light.
Maryam Shadmehr is an emerging writer who lives in Emeryville, California with her husband and daughter. Her work has been published in Masque and Spectacle, Cider Press Review, and Overtly Lit and is forthcoming in Ethel Zine. She can be found on https://maryamshadmehr.wordpress.com/ or on Twitter @maryamshadmehr.
Emerge Literary Journal 