An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash

Tag: longing

A Life Lived in Common

Poetry by Robert Harlow

They don’t think much about it,
I suspect, the horses, the snow.
Probably wonderstruck the first time
they stand in it, as it falls on and around them.
As long as they have something to eat,
mostly hay, unbaled, strewn, disheveled,
they are fine, it seems. Nonchalant.
At least that’s what they look like. Their pose.
And there’s always one, isn’t there,
who is off by himself, looking
to the distance he can’t get to.
Even though he’s never been there,
he wonders if there’s a way he can.
Somehow, he’ll have to convince the others,
nodding into the feed, to cover for him
by creating one of their famous diversions
as he tries to figure out how to open the gate,
because he has to live with the mistake he made
of not learning how to be a jumper
as I tried to teach him to be.
And he can’t secretly disassemble the rails
without me seeing him, catch him in the act,
putting on the “What? I wasn’t doing nothing” face.
Even though he is dark-gray, intermittently rain-smooth
when he needs to be, snow won’t help hide him,
as he thinks it will, or fill in his hoof prints
on the other side if he somehow remembers
what I tried to teach him about going over obstacles
one might encounter in this often-puzzling world.
So, he’ll have to be content,
or at least pretend to be, with his lot in life.
We have so much in common, he and I, don’t we?
He staring off into his distance.
Me staring off into mine.


Robert Harlow resides in upstate NY. He is the author of Places Near and Far (Louisiana Literature, 2018). His poems appear in Poetry Northwest, RHINO, Slipstream Magazine, and elsewhere.

Posted

Fiction by Brigita Orel

My thumbnail hurts from so much biting. He’s usually here by now. What’s taking so long?

There’s a noise outside. I peer through the crack in the curtain. It’s just the neighbour’s dog. Come on! It’s past eleven.

The doorbell rings then and my heart stutters. I fumble with the keys and it’s a good thing because if I opened the door right away, he’d know I’ve been waiting for him.

He smiles down at me and his soft eyes sparkle. He’s had his hair cut. I like it. I wonder if he’s noticed I curled mine.

“Sorry I’m late, had a flat tyre.” He grins. “Another package for you, Miss Appleby.” He holds out a book-sized box.

“It’s Alice,” I say, my voice cracking with nerves.

“Alice.”

I love the way his low voice makes my name sound glamorous as though I’m a film star not an archivist.

Confusion flickers across his features. He proffers the package to me again.

“Oh, right.” I grab it from him, heat rising up my neck. “Thank you.”

“Till next time.” I open my mouth to offer him refreshment, but he’s already descending the stairs, swinging his leg over his bicycle. He gives a short wave and he’s gone around the corner.

I go in and let the door slam behind me. I tear off the address label from the box. There’s some packaging paper in my drawer and I wrap the box so it’ll look different next time. I don’t want him to suspect anything. I write my address on it and leave it on the desk. I’ll take it to the post office after lunch. One of these days, when he’s not in a hurry, I’ll gather the courage to invite him in.


Brigita Orel’s work has been published in online and print magazines. Her picture book The Pirate Tree (Lantana Publishing, 2019) was Bank Street Best Children’s Book of the Year. She studied creative writing at Swansea University. Brigita lives in Slovenia where she works as a translator.

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