by Ashley Gilland
Confession
The house across the street had burned,
yet stood, black swashes across the front
door, brick walls charred like a well-used
fireplace, tree limbs in rubbish piles. Despite
the bleak staging, the slate walk hosted
a ballroom gala of calla lilies in elegant
wrap dresses conversing like bridesmaids
rating the bachelors. I wanted more for them
than wraiths of ivy creeping up like news
of a death spreading among a cluster of friends.
I dreamed of arranging them like renaissance
angels around my house. A shovel brought
them closer, but set among my annuals,
they seemed more distant, less celebratory
Disaster brings so much gaiety to a crowd.
The fire had exhilarated them, aroused them
with the possibility of extinction. Survival
had put color in their faces, but their bloom
lost its intensity in the security of my beds.
I had counted on them to acclimate
to my possession like partners in a dull marriage,
instead, they folded up and went underground.
A native of Jacksonville, Florida, Chris Bullard is a retired judge who lives in Philadelphia. In 2022, Main Street Rag published his chapbook, Florida Man, and Moonstone Press published his chapbook, The Rainclouds of y. Finishing Line Press has accepted his chapbook, Lungs, for publication in 2024. He was nominated this year for the Pushcart Prize. X @ChrisBu20496680 kellticbullard on Instagram.
Ashley Gilland is a writer, musician, and multimedia artist from Missouri currently pursuing her MFA at UW Bothell. Her work is published in Dishsoap Quarterly, Haven Speculative, Quail Bell Magazine, and The Waxed Lemon, among others. When not writing poetry and philosophical flash fiction, she also loves composing music and embroidering mixed media art projects. Find her music on Spotify and Bandcamp, her art on Instagram (@pocketsnailart), and her tweets at @earlgreysnail.