Father does not know
we have left the garden.
A yard too small if not too
He sits in a haze of blue smoke
heavy in the air but light
as a cherry softly glows
whiskey and worn leather keeping him company
My brother, he has forgotten.
Stones from his hand are cruel and uncaring
it is all I can do to respond with a whisper of
Dusk looms close
shards of painted glass strewn across a canvas of indigo and silence
perhaps tomorrow they shall
Eli Steiger is a 25-year-old writer residing in Cleveland, OH. He is a Junior, studying Creative Writing and Philosophy. His work has recently appeared in Glass Mountain. He has four cats. That is too many cats. His interests include long walks on the beach, romantic candlelit dinners, overthrowing the bourgeoisie, and existential dread.