By Midsummer

By: Claire Kroening.

Tangerine pulped her fingers, laced like vinegar on springwater. She dreamt of Icarus on rooftops torn. On last-minute regrets creaking the floorboards. The citrus ever-ripened on the dining table; spreading purple bruises of mold from one to the next.

By midsummer, papers piled up in the mailbox. Weeds outgrew the annual garden, filling in the cracks between bricks. She dreamt of Icarus in photographs—half covered in ash, smeared where features meet. In streets quieting before the lamplights flicker on. Counting the days where the citrus used to lay. A mural to the miseries left without return letters.

By early Samhain, leaves matted the doorway, slipping in with waxing chill. She dreamt of Icarus, for that's all he was. Resting at the edge of rippled borders. A tag without a name, but a number and the forest cover. Her home was sold weeks later.