"Thirst" - Larissa Hahn
The trees they say hello to me
each time I’m passing on.
Stark naked words the trunks bare
bright silvery solid lines. You know
the place where hanging limbs lie.
Susceptible to every written persuasion,
man, the encircled forest diminishes
with another printed proposal.
Yet friendly hands still wave at me
as they whistle from the wind.
A network of tiny, delicate blossoms
bursting bright with every color so thick
it hides the nesting mother.
Rescind skepticism and search for your own
route among the unquenchable thirsts.
Imagine the taste of mucus and vomit
in the desert. Your tongue sticks
as you examine the decayed coral reef
the skeletons of fish, the dried
dusty trenches of the once fathomless
sea. Only God can make it rain.
The grass is cheerier than ever this year.
It snakes its way through foundations
of false structures, corrupted concrete.
There are dandelions in the grime.
Sparks of life floating onwards, planting
gems to speckle the star-covered scene.
Would you dare to walk about the world,
stretch your legs and listen?
Larissa Hahn is a senior at UW-Madison, as well as the Online Editor for UW Flash Fiction. This is her first time being published on our website.