by Virginia Eggerton

I’m not as sure of the ground now as I was when I was smaller. Now, to feel its presence, I stoop down, unmoor weeds and stare at their dangling intestines. I grind onion-grass between my molars and let the allium sourness coat my gums and teeth and tongue.

When I was her, I held cicada husks to the sun to see them glow like amber. I dug down to the clay to watch fat, white grubs appear and disappear like twinkling lights, hands red ochre with earth.

And later, in the sink, I waited for the water to run clear.

Virginia Eggerton is a getting her MFA at George Mason University. She writes short (and very short) fiction, some of which has been published by Wigleaf, Cease Cows, MoonPark Review, and Honey and Lime Lit. You can find her on twitter @eggertonhere