By Lorette C. Luzajic

Stubby fingers, pinching, pulling. Digging down to dough. I see stars. The eggs are still warm from the hens. I wanted to take you there in the coop, all that bossy and clucking fecundity in the salt and straw. You blink twice, turn sideways, every time I catch your eye. Soda, you snap your fingers at the carton. Sugar, you say next, taking it from me, but holding back in your pour. The air is dense and saccharine from bananas. I fly back in time, to a Minnesota trailer.  Prom gone wrong. I emptied all my tears into your cupcake tins because someone didn’t know I was alive. What does it matter now? When here, when this. Truth be told, I forget who it was.

Lorette C. Luzajic is a widely published writer of flash fiction and prose poetry. Her work has recently appeared in Tiny Molecules, Cleaver, Ghost Parachute, Cabinet of Heed, and Flash Boulevard. Her most recent collection is Winter in June. Lorette hosts monthly ekphrastic writing workshops online, and also teaches ekphrastic microfiction workshops in collaboration with Meg Pokrass. She is the editor and founder of The Ekphrastic Review.