RIP Winston Smith
She told me her mother said there was beauty in
the pain; to become a flower, make herself small
so god wouldn’t notice.
At night she made up fables to help her fall
asleep. She was magic, a firefly locked in a jar
fluttering to be released.
She sang me a folk song her mother taught her;
slow, out of tune with a crooked smile knowing
more than a young girl ever should.
We felt a boom of thunder rattle the clear sky,
the clouds punctuated with birds. I wanted to ask
her forgiveness but she was already gone.
© Alex Stolis
Alex Stolis lives in Minneapolis; he has had poems published in numerous journals. The full-length collection, Postcards from the Knife-Thrower, was runner-up for the Moon City Poetry Prize in 2017. Two full-length collections, Pop. 1280, and John Berryman Died Here, were released by Cyberwit and available on Amazon. He has poems forthcoming in Piker’s Press, One Art Poetry, The Rye Whiskey Review, and art forthcoming in Star 82 Review.
The Loch Raven Review 