Stone.jpg
Stone.jpg

Stone


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Stone


 

Stone

You draw a picture in which I am your mother, and you a mermaid. Color seeps into paper made of stone, into fossils beneath our hands. You grip a string that carries us to the stars.  For keeping their secret, we are transformed. Back East we measure 55 steps from one end of the whale to the other. All around us stuffed seals and plastic swords. I remember this whale—as big as my world. This house the star we were looking for, the star with a door inside.

 
 

Laurie Filipelli


Laurie Filipelli


 

Laurie Filipelli is the author of Elseplace (Brooklyn Arts Press, 2013). Her recent poems appear at The Pinch, apt, Salamander, So and So Magazine, and Redheaded Stepchild. She lives in Austin, Texas where she works as a freelance writer, editor, and writing coach. 

 

ISSUE FIVE