by Natalie Marino
That morning when the window was so drenched with sun we thought some things do last forever, that our mouths would not become hard like bone. Our red sleds rode down down down the slippery snow— it was perfect like California’s sweet strawberries in winter. Our bodies will remember for us when we find our former selves in the gray silence of old photographs. We will fill the empty spaces with the loud colors of paper marigolds.
Natalie Marino is a poet, physician, and mother. Her work appears in Barren Magazine, Capsule Stories, Dust Poetry Magazine, Kissing Dynamite Poetry, Leon Literary Review, Literary Mama, Moria Online, and elsewhere. She also reads poetry submissions for Bracken Magazine. She lives in California with her husband and two daughters.