She called my name
from the porch, whose light
flickered and dimmed like our
flashlights that grazed
each other’s faces. Ollie, Ollie, oxen-free,
I shouted and the kids scattered
like ants from a hole
where a magnifying glass loitered
above. I ran toward her with wounded
knees from Razor scooter accidents
and long descents from colossal
trees, whose bombs we threw until
they exploded like grenades.
She called me again with
white tulips huddled on her back and
black curls that I never remembered until
she died. Her voice was the sun
who always blazed the brightest
before dipping behind our
mountain. I’m calling back to
her, my swallowed voice
painting the purple air blue.
David James is a writer and professional editor living in his hometown, Denver, CO. He has a BFA in Creative Writing from the University of Nebraska at Omaha and was previously the editor-in-chief of the undergraduate literary magazine, 13th Floor Magazine. When he isn't reading or writing, his head is in the clouds.