The Fiddleback

Run. Pant. Strip the leaves to the ground. Fold them into your waistband like the pubes that once poked through her panties. Separate the ground from the sky. Slip in between. Still your face, fist, and heart. Kick the moss from the trees. Kick the wings from the fly. Hold each to your nose. Breathe. Do not imagine her lemonade breasts or honey hair or the puckered skin around her strawberry nipples. Do not miss her. Wet the wings to your eye crease. Pull the moss apart. Fling it from you. Collect it back into your cradled arms. Whisper hot, lovely things. Eat it. Do not swallow. Hold it in your cheeks. Part your lips. Do not remember the brown in her blue eye. Spit. Repeat, if you know what’s good for you.

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Hazel Foster writes and laughs on a floor in Grand Rapids, MI. She has a B.A. in Writing from Grand Valley State University and a hankering for artichoke dip. Her work was appeared or is forthcoming in >kill author, PANK, Metazen, and TRNSFR among others. You can, should, must visit her at hazelfoster.com