top of page

For That

Updated: Dec 10, 2023

on the way down the hill the girls and I remember

last week when they did a botch job

polishing each other’s fingernails


the child shows me her hands now: see my mother

got the red out of the places

where you couldn’t


my offhanded question: your mother

wasn’t upset about your nails was she


no it was okay she didn’t

hit me for that


BIO

Lyall Harris is a visual artist and writer whose poetry and prose have appeared in The Minnesota Review, The New Guard, The Dewdrop, The Perch Magazine, The Vincent Brothers Review, High Shelf Press, and elsewhere; her creative nonfiction has been featured in The Montréal Review.

https://lyallharris.com

Recent Posts

See All
Laughing at the Sky

Someone’s set my soul loose; I can’t get her back. She’s out there, dancing wildly, wonderfully released. Prior craziness now seems justified—those midnight escapades to the underworld, hoping (like P

 
 
 
The World Awaits

Her tiny fingers grasp my hand; dark pools of eyes follow me. The first light creeps beneath the curtains. Black curls like tendrils wind round shell-like ears with rose-pink lobes. Outside the world

 
 
 
My Former Lovers (A Sonnet)

My former lovers send me many things: old photos, art, mementoes of our lives; if we had wed, they’d give me diamond rings, but nothing of true value still survives. My former lovers praise me to the

 
 
 

Comments

bottom of page