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Spring Water Lane - David James

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.

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