by on May 4, 2016

A moth is caught in the car. It flutters trying to escape through the back window, bangs uselessly against the glass. I open all of the doors, even the hatchback. Still it flounders, can’t figure its way out, wings dull brown on the outside, bright orange underneath.

      all day long
       wearing my sweater
       inside out

A year has passed since my sister-in-law was charged with my brother’s murder. Between now and then, court appearances, bail hearings, a flurry of news reports, but for the most part, the days pass in an unsettling hum of normalcy.

      needle stuck
       in the trough of the LP
       of the LP of the LP


Marianne Paul is a Canadian novelist and poet. In recent years, she has become fascinated with minimalist poetry, studying haiku, tanka, haiga, and haibun. Her work has been published in many contemporary journals, both online and in print. Learn more about Marianne’s writing at literarykayak.com and on twitter @mariannpaul.

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