Salt Water
The prophets railed about the coming tides in Kyoto. The air thickened and skiers tumbled into a sudden crevasse. In Rio, the Redeemer wept. Circling storms swamped the deltas, and the impromptu navy had to turn back to save themselves. Glasgow toasted itself with sulfate-free wines flown in from the four humid, peeling corners of the globe. Now sirens scream as thunderheads encircle my teardrop isle. I recall from my cool school days a question about the world ending in fire or ice. I know now the answer is primordial salt water, reclaiming a race that subverted its own escape.
Linda McMullen is a wife, mother, daughter, diplomat, and homesick Wisconsinite. Her short stories and the occasional poem have appeared in over one hundred fifty literary magazines. She may be found on Twitter: @LindaCMcMullen.
