To 2016-2017

By Allison Rothrock

  1. Seasons
    By Ashley Wu
There was an old iron flower by the stoop in the garden. It was pricked with rust, in patches and stipples like a myriad of renegade eyes. The autumn rain had made it lumpy and creased, but artfully thin, each vagarious shower a more absolute monolith. The top was now barren, empty, only a last stamen gnomon.

That, she decided, was how his face looked.

A false spring had taken the garden that year. Two of the steel-cold, still daffodils sat in a vase by the bed.

She shouldn't look. It was bad luck.

Ugly, eager pupil.

The sheets were printed with late summer shapes, faded marigold strands and threadbare Black-eyed Susans. He still clasped a clump in one tight, springtrap hand. The two daffodils leaned over his head, white, white buds frozen in their vacuities like fetal eyes.

She lingered, a shadow above his breast. Her fingers prickled and itched. Like a clockwork orange, she peeled away that cataractous lid. One wintered eye.

While the world turned black, she held her breath, waiting to see her face showing back in it.