His skin ripples with Egyptian sandstone a cinnamon vase un-dyed silk flowers a piano half-buried in granite. We press our breasts against each other sage sweater-vests linen pants and sandals touch through shared resolve to typeset. He leads my fingers within an inch of his daughter’s coral waist feels my breath take in her stride through his surgical mask through the sound of birds rapping on glass.
Nathaniel Vincent Mohatt | Mudlark No. 42 (2011) Contents | Baseball