the rose

He held up her portrait, close, noticing things about
flesh, then looked away at the mountains and through
the green window. Then he looked, a third time, into
his mind. He saw that the willow was drowning and
that blue flowers floated around the place. She’d been
crying over the dead bird and the frame of the portrait
now showed green. The cage was rusted and green.
Her dress had fallen from her shoulder (it was a waste
to break the other half of the mirror) and with her face
forlorn he wanted to go up. He thought he’d put his
cheek on her naked shoulder but was pricked by
thorns. He leaned in. The flowers were blue budgies
floating and softly alighting. There was flutter and
splash, splash and flutter. The air had feathers and
petals in it. The air was crimson and down. He saw
her close the window and drag the frame through the
soot on the floor. The rose was dark and he knew that
it was dying.


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Monique Lyle

Monique Lyle is a writer and improviser. She is currently completing a PhD with the Writing and Research Centre at Western Sydney University. Recently her work has appeared in Overland, Cordite, Flash Cove, Otoliths and Mascara Literary Review.

More by Monique Lyle ›

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