Your riverbed eyes
Bring from gut strings
Chords not of love,
But of witchcraft or madness
And prisoners starving out in the cold.

You know that I know
That I know that you—
You only appear
To resemble yourself,
Tubercular angel, indifferent foe.

You float just across there
At fingertip reach,
Placid, banal
And assure me of nothing,
(if nothing had substance).

But then flits the beast
With serrated teeth
In waters too shallow not
To show shadow. 
I know what I see, for

Careless, you turn,
With air of flirtation,
Deliberate, glance, and
Tell me
You’re there.

 Shelley K. Davenport


Shelley K. Davenport lives and writes in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She has had flash fiction pieces published by Everyday Fiction and the Eastern Iowa Review, as well as a short story in the upcoming COLD HARD TYPE anthology, “Escapements."


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