Today's offering is the tiniest of flash fiction, written in poem form.
The river is lapping
on my porch.
Red fish and blue fish
leap toward the doorbell
seeking sanctuary.
My cat smacks her lips
wishes for opposable thumbs.
Meanwhile, I am
a Russian nesting doll.
I contain multitudes.
The old woman
on the outside
is undecided.
The young woman within
is watching the clock
checking the laundry
an eye on the pot roast
a hand in school lunches,
kids’ homework, agenda
for tomorrow’s staff meeting.
Is there room in her heart
for wayward fish?
The teenager flush
with her first taste
of autonomy is eager
to burst through the door
snap up the fish, secure
them in her pockets,
take off swimming
toward San Francisco Bay.
The tiny wooden doll
in the center has rosy cheeks
holds a calla lily
in her cupped hands,
like a fragrant candle,
a light, a memory,
an assurance
that somewhere deep within
remains something
authentic.
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