at the speed of moonlight, hedges breathe easy, insects sleep. purple smudges lawns and these are not her shadow, but the shadows of everyone in her light. she casts an aura like a pregnant belly, the curve so wide it arcs underground, illuminating spaces between grains of soil, worms, bones of the dead, and cicadas waiting for 13 years. everyone touched underneath the ground, underneath the moon in the light of her undoing.
Carrie Sword is a Jungian psychotherapist with a Ph.D. in clinical psychology, and a B.A. in English. Her writing has appeared in Sky Island Journal, Ink Drinker’s Magazine, and Sledgehammer Lit. She also holds an Associated Press Award for Feature Writing (Series).
Lost Balloon 