Mara Fein

Edgewater

I came to release her into stonyhearted spray.  Sailboats huddled, obscured by a medley of sullen shrouds.  The wind whistled sea salt, pushed bruised clouds over the crippled pier. The shore sprawled beneath waves that seemed to withdraw, forget me for just a moment, then roar past, reprieve forgotten.

gray shawled mist
wearies a piece of driftwood;
winter’s tail

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About the Author

Mara Gale Fein most often writes of loss.  Her work appeared most recently in California Quarterly and can also be found in Amethyst Review, Tahoma Literary Review, Poor Yorick, and elsewhere. She holds a doctorate in English from the University of Southern California. 

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