Fingers for the Ferryman

by Dan Diehn

Beyond the bend the fallow sways and a dot of darkness amongst the trees leans into view, our crystal eyes affixed in direction and distance. The engine rumbles beneath our feet. Our fingers drip ash into the howling wind, passing time while hazy yellow blows distant clouds’ electrical fluctuations leering through the sky. Thick heat burrows into our skin. We are here now, the muck of illness retches into the vibrant world. There is a path, narrow and deep onto our shoes and socks and ankles and knees and noses and eyes until water bursts forth from cheekbones. Past the vale, the ferns open up and we see the beach where her body floats, the stench of which rises into our nostrils screeching no, no, we do not want her either. The goddamn beast escaped hell. I could recognize my mother while standing on another planet least of all bloated and torn asunder. We left her up river with shoes of gold only the winds guiding us to her prophesied resurrection. Spewed earthly and bold we recount her sins one at a time while flesh falls neatly onto the tiny round world beneath our toes.

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