by Cathy Ulrich

The Size of Your Love

You’re waiting for a couple to bring you their dead baby. You’ll turn the picture of your own child before they come. They won’t be able to see her face. You don’t want them to see her face. They’re running late; the mortician has gone home. When they come, their dead baby will be in a basket. Their dead baby will be the size of a fist. The mother will kiss the baby, kiss the baby.

You’d have kissed me too, your daughter is certain when you tell her later, because you love me.

We Turn to Silver Fishes in the Rain

We turn ’to silver fishes in the rain. The rain never ceases; the sun never rises. It is always night now: beautiful, silver, wet. We cut through it with our slim fish bodies. We raise our heads above the water and touch the rain. The birds had laughed when our transformation began, and swore they could fly longer than the rain. Their wings, now, are wet and heavy, and the falling rain carries them closer and closer to our gaping mouths.

Lately, Cathy Ulrich has been writing stories about fish and babies. Her flash fiction has recently been published in Harpoon Review, Moonsick Magazine and Cease, Cows.