Grave Turner

with soil still slipping from my fingertips

he found me, shriveled petals in my hair

with a tombstone corroded long ago

swimming in my dress, noes to the air

watching him from the left

tasting the air, searching for fear

 

then sighting his crusted shoes

a worn shovel

caked in mineral, fixed focus

as branches whipped

scattering dust and crits

with a lick of his lips

he pasted a recognizing smile

against a haunted face

and a beholding gaze

 

he nicked the earth

and I flinched

still, ready to quench

a hundred year hunger,

I quivered,

he smells meaty

 

then he huffed,

well you didn’t need

any help getting out

of there, now did you?

-B. Brown

 

Thank you for reading šŸ™‚ I’m learning how to write flash fiction so your feedback will be greatly appreciated. Have an inspiring day!

 

(image courtesy of Pinterest)