Fortune
The dog tipped over the trash,
sniffed week-old egg roll with his snout,
found the cookies we couldn’t crack,
swallowed two still-folded futures,
then like us: gagged, hacked
one out.
Transit
We watched as
the new one
in foreign tongue
tugged on
his shirt
and asked him
to tell her
how to get
to the bus—
which could take her
to the train,
which would make her
board another,
which would get her
to the work
she was promised
from this land—
and listened
like her life
was held
in his hands,
whispered
his words
and then
doubled back
until she
could hold to
the first
before learning
the next,
like walking
the wire
taut over
the canyon,
both trembling
but trying,
then showed her
what’s meant
by tunnel
and ticket,
and when she
had repeated
all steps
back to him,
tore hearts
when she asked
if we
could explain
how then,
together,
to get her
back home.
Aaron Sandberg thinks ‘cellar door’ sounds fine, he guesses. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in West Trade Review, Asimov’s, The Offing, Sporklet, Lowestoft Chronicle, Abridged, Giallo, Right Hand Pointing, Monday Night, and elsewhere. A Pushcart-nominated teacher, you might find him—though socially-distant—on Instagram @aarondsandberg.
Shambles 