Liminal Left

Written in response to a prompt site called The Sunday Whirl, from writer Brenda Warren. What a fun way to loosen up words.  Once a week, she posts a Wordle as a poetry prompt. Try it.  It’s fun. Here’s her prompt for this week, with my response below.

Maeve snared an angel once, by mistake. Impossible to say how long she kept it, how many lost hours or years of liminal light they sat through, angel and thief, watching each other. Waiting.

 
Eventually, Maeve let it go. But she remembers this—the slap of wings against the ground as it rose through the forest. The empty snare shimmering with gold dust. Her own gasp at the sudden cold of loss once the angel was gone. Her own hands coated with gold.

 
There is no space in Maeve’s world for a memory like this so she shut it off, as if turning down a dial till it clicks softly Off. She only lets herself remember in the long pause between awake and asleep, liminal calling to liminal. This will go on for a very long time, until at last they meet again.