by Amanda Hays Blasko

I spent an evening driving to the grocery store, thinking about how to describe the sky. A notebook in miniature folded in my purse, tucked in the passenger seat. The streetlights ran green, ushering me forward like the levers of a pinball machine. Torn between record, remember, experience. The sky—gray as graphite, soft as lead. Soft light piercing the murk of hot water. Cigarette clouds in lantern light. Smoke, my mother said. Something’s burning, either us or something we love.

Amanda Hays Blasko’s work has appeared in a variety of journals, including storySouth, The Tahoma Literary Review, West Trade Review, and Hawaii Pacific Review. Find her at amandahaysblasko.com.