Where the Rabbits Run, Near the Shore
From Hartsfield Airport, I emailed my mother: when this message
arrives, find me in France; don’t bother writing, I’ll be out of range.
First Lille, then Brittany where time grew strange among the rabbit
runs and shattered boulders, moss‐covered gate posts, empty fields.
When I met the man in white at the edge of the ocean, we were still
empty cups, neither able to fill the other’s need. He prayed, his mouth
ripe with lavender, while I listened in the dark. I imagined my mother
calling, my father’s strangled fists. Now, I cannot tell you if we touched,
or, standing as we did, our distance echoed.
Alicia Cole, a writer and educator, lives in Lawrenceville, GA, with a photographer, their cat, and two schools of fish. Her poetry appears or is forthcoming in Asimov's, Strange Horizons, Goblin Fruit, Dark Mountain, and Futuredaze: An Anthology of YA Science Fiction. She muses on writing and life at three‐magpies.livejournal.com.