by Iryna Somkina
Like Father, Like Son
Your son has your eyes, shining with a promise not meant for me.
Your father has your voice, heavy with memories I can’t carry. I am a ghost drifting through.
Raindrop
The clock face melted into the wall
stood by the window for a century.
Watching a single raindrop refuse to
fall.
Then
without a
sound
morning arrived like a
bruise.
****
Iryna Somkina is a Kyiv-based writer. She is Best Small Fiction nominee; her works explore ambivalence of intimacy in gritty reality.