Taste of Ashes
by Peter Macrow


I'd never seen a madwoman,
apart from Ophelia and my mother
when she took the overdose,
but she was there on the landing.
Blackbird eyes stared out,
her blonde hair fell to one side.
She was binding dead lemon grass around withered flowers.
I found them on my step that night.
Today, an empy milk carton lay crooked on the stairs
and on my step, dead leaves.






Copyright © 2022 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.