by Jeff Friedman
The bad news came in the wind, came from the trees dropping their red and gold leaves, the acorns drumming the roofs. The bad news came in the air like smoke, hovering in the sky—thick clouds that wouldn’t let the hot air rise. The bad news whistled into our ears, stung our eyes, played over and over again on the blind stations, the signals breaking into static. We wanted only the good news, but the bad news walked in front of us, beside us and behind us. The bad news was always with us. It opened the doors to our homes, led us in.
JEFF FRIEDMAN has published eleven collections of poetry and prose, His work has appeared in Best Microfiction, New Republic, New England Review, Poetry, and American Poetry Review. He has received an NEA Literature Translation Fellowship and numerous other awards.
Photo Credit: Artin Bakhan on Unsplash
