The Orange after Wendy Cope There were shards everywhere for a while but then I climbed through the red clay of restoration. You brushed me off with a straw broom and we played the game of gratitude and looped our favorite park five and a half times. We walked through the door of our home with a bag of new books, artisan fridge magnets, the caffeine shimmers—an entire day ahead of us. Sometimes I’ll be packing my lunch and realize, for the last three days, everything has worked out. The way an orange is pre-sliced for whoever wants to eat it. The way the soft white glow of the moon falls on the rain gutters, as silent as the hidden sparrows in our neighbor’s ailanthus. I think I was meant to share this sentiment, to piece it out like an orange and give a little slice to everybody—to keep enough for myself, but give most of it to you. It feels so new, to draw an arrow of peace from my chest to our g...
Flying Island is the Online Literary Journal of the Indiana Writers Center, accepting submissions from Midwest residents and those with significant ties to the Midwest.