Hot Metal Bridge

Current Issue : Number Twenty-Five

from There Are Storms Farther Than You


My soaking linens are gray, your hair sweeps the floor. The lines we hum take shape in soap bubbles. They would pop on a breath, if either of us were breathing. How do lungs do it anyway? So many spores to absorb. Right now the only sound is sucking; so much for a melody. Don’t sit down over there, the chair is breaking. Pick your head up, paint my softening nails. In the road is a bus. Under the bus is a bomb, next to the bomb is someone’s dirty undershirt. The people on the street are running because they can smell the puddles, they know that nothing dry is coming. Is the rainy season over yet, you ask. I look at the pumpkin seeds building up in our sink. They reek of lightning. I take a deep breath in.

Elizabeth Wilcox grew up in Northern Virginia and is now a PhD student in Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Southern California. She is an editor for Gold Line Press, and her work has most recently been published in RHINO, The Cortland Review, and the Indiana Review.