~ After Standing Nude, Amedeo Modigliani, 1911

I assumed I’d land on my feet, remain erect, my head and neck and limbs lengthening like the painted lithe bodies of my beloved’s models—whores all—assumed that my toes would caress the ground, my hair the clouds, that the sun—so close!—would flame my cheeks scarlet like my lips, that my lips would once more graze my darling’s in his honeysuckle heaven, its perfumed air cleansed of the seethe of his drink, of his fuming; and I imagined I’d shiver once more to the whispers of his fingers’ light strokes, like rustling silk, our torsos nudging then rubbing, never again do us part rising like birdsong from our long-parched throats, while our as-yet-unborn child would absorb this fervor—our devotion!—safe in my belly, my purpled skin so taut over my womb clutching his skull, embracing his tiny bones turning to the rhythm of this reunion, our woodfire heat…

blackbirds tug blind earthworms

writhing in our tomb

Mikki Aronoff lives in New Mexico, where she writes tiny stories and advocates for animals. She has stories in Best Microfiction (2024, 2025) and Best Small Fictions (2024, 2025).