By Glenna Hursh

The minnows flick their tails
as the moon’s face reflects on the pond’s surface
like the circular imprints left from
the hot liquid spilled from teacups.
The cloth rag reeking of saffron
and the barely visible traces of

Crimson lipstick left behind.
Our newspaper rests at the bottom stair
I found the letters —
the last evidence I need.

Before, I thought I was dreaming
of the late night whispers coming from the bathroom
the broken gazes between us
When had my life become so twisted? Such a lie?
When had love, honor, and protect
become merely words, void of meaning?

My heart swells with the knowledge of the truth,
black smears around my eyelashes
I wipe away angry moisture
I fall into a chair to keep from fainting.
Girlfriend, I answer myself


Glenna Hursh is a graduating senior with an English major and Creative Writing minor. She is from Middleburg,  Pennsylvania. This is her first publication.