Love Letters From Lake Geneva SYDNEY WRIGHT
It was when a scattering of ivy clasped my ankle behind the rotting willows that I was reminded of the loon’s shrill echoing across Lake Geneva. Remember Shelley, when that poor girl you loved mopped her corset through the lake after chloroform cough syrup visions of stillborn blueberry lipped babes as motionless as the overbaked, sodden July breeze. You said to me Byron, quit writing stories of hollow haunted love. For Mary is enamored by rotting organs and resurrection, blood stained carnations, and cancer. Cancer, sweet cancer crawls beneath Capricorn with her elongated death. Mary, Mary, and her morbid magpie tune. Snippety snap the shredded strand of the pearl necklace you gave her slipped into a froth of moss and insects lost to the breeze. We laughed and called her “Ophelia” as chestnut curls churned over the laminated lake surface. 22 | Montage
