The sweet plums, their skins popping under our teeth. Our parents’ voices like skeeters in the living room. The lick and drip of ice cream cones. Our house baking our parents’ marriage down to dust. The sway of rowboats, the oars knocking the sides. Our father blowing away in the night like dandelion spores. The sand, a trillion tiny particles that we’d sift through our fingers. My mother melting alone in the kitchen down to an ice cream puddle. The soft smell of September in the air, the death and crisp of leaves. Our father never calling again. The coming of autumn. The coming of autumn.
POETRY October 1, 2026
How We Learned Summer
Francine Witte writes flash fiction and poetry and is the author of the flash collection Radio Water (2024). Her newest poetry book, Some Distant Pin of Light, was published by Cervena Barva Press (2025). Her story “Plate Spinner” won a Pushcart Prize. She lives in New York City. Please visit her website. She can be found on social media @francinewitte.