She was there, as a field of flowers she had taught me to distinguish by their names.

She had once sung a fantastic tale which she knew by memory: the grain of wheat. Her softest whisper reaching root and branch.

Now she stood like a sharp vertical cut. And all was still. How easily one forgets these little things!

No need to revisit the grave.

Basilike Pappa lives in Greece, where she doesn’t work as a translator, a copy editor or a historian. Her work has appeared in Intrinsick, Rat’s Ass Review, Surreal Poetics, Bones, Dodging the Rain, Sonic Boom, Timeless Tales, Free Verse Revolution and Visual Verse. Most of the time she can be found at home. If she’s not there, I don’t know where she is. To read more of her work, you may visit her blog Silent Hour – Poetry and Prose by Basilike Pappa.

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