The moon’s unwavering gaze follows me. It says, do not pick at what is laid to rest. Yet I labour along another journey. Waiting, with fists clenched. Grabhandles swing ceremoniously as he enters. Unaccustomed to the land of hot and humid, this mountaintop idol with velvet skin and a hole in his cheek. Another orifice to cater to, embroidered circumference gaping. But I lack a tongue of precision: When I say concern, I mean sensation. When I ask for truth, I want an escape. I place my offering into his punctured face. Broken flowers, loose change. A picture, a memory. Then lean in for a revelation. I receive a tale of caution. Love shrouded by noise. This compartment of whining metal. I do not want to be what I seek. I do not want to be what I seek.

M. S. writes flash and poetry. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Ellipsis Zine, The Night Heron Barks, Rejection Letters and other such online literary journals and magazines.