He has always been remote—an island who’s never seen a swimmer or even the occasional lost fish.
He is so remote that he should be furniture—the unused couch in the living room or the discarded ottoman that, in winter, will wear nothing but the lavender chenille throw.
The sea turns, careful not to touch him. His dead mother, his dead father, circle him like blackbirds or grackles. At night, when the darkness turns around him and he is moved to speak, he cannot. In the spinning, the dizziness, he thinks to himself, Still. Control. He turns his stubborn back because the world is remote. It reminds him of a far-off place.
Laura Stringfellow writes both verse and prose poetry, holds an MFA in Creative Writing, Poetry, and hails from the muggy strangelands of the Southern U.S. Her work has appeared in various literary journals and magazines, including Right Hand Pointing, Clementine Unbound, Déraciné, Neologism Poetry Journal, Coffin Bell: a journal of dark literature, Ephemeral Elegies, and The Lake. Read more of her work at laurastringfellow.com.