BY Addy Mahaffey
Sometimes I dream of the bruises of children—
a bloom of maroon on a small thigh
beneath small summer shorts.
This is what it is to see the tender core
of youth and know where teeth may land.
I wake up sick, thirsty for the rusty
hose water of my childhood
and the rabid clarity of a sermon.
There is something preserving
about a mind formed in a mine fire—
a canary nest saved in a tin lunch box,
yellow and whole but shaken.
This is what I remind myself
when I dream of a man I know
viciously twisting my breast—
that I am the amber embryo of two miners
who dreamed in the dark and so I dream
of coal; of birdsong; of the bruises of children.
Addy Mahaffey is a writer and grants consultant who lives in Fayetteville, Arkansas with her cat. She holds a degree in English from the University of Arkansas. Her creative work has been shortlisted for Wigleaf's 2021 Top 50 Very Short Fictions, longlisted for Fractured Lit's 2022 Reprint Prize, and has been published in the tiny journal, Crab Fat Magazine, Glass Mountain Magazine, and elsewhere.