The coat sprawled on the riverside is dry,
wet dirt sticking over its velvet lapels.
I pick it up, well-worn wool, a wayfarer’s
cloth, it hangs shapeless, patient. The morning
mist surrounds us, we are two waves
crashing on the shore, beating in unending
silence, a perpetual motion, a before and after.
A question hangs in the air, it begs for
an answer, it begs to be worn. How onerous
are choices when their depth reaches
the underworld? The river springs,
some decisions are meant for the surface and
others are a promise to the water itself.
I throw the coat over my shoulders, its heaviness
a pile of old strength, its softness forgiving.
I needle my hands through the sleeves,
a snake shedding skin in reverse. My pockets
hang with a fistful of obols. On the shore
a figure waits next to a wooden boat. Obol
in hand. Memories flood the water, pool cold
around my ankles, my bones are ancient oars.
Eventually, the tide will return and with it,
a new shift, a reborn mist and an old
woolen coat passed down in sunrise.
| Eva Papasoulioti is a Greek writer of speculative fiction and poetry. Her work has appeared in Uncanny, Strange Horizons, Solarpunk Magazine, Heartlines Spec, Radon Journal, and elsewhere, and has been nominated for the Rhysling and Dwarf Stars Awards. She lives in Athens with her spouse and their two cats. You can find her on X/twitter and bluesky @epapasoulioti and on her blog plothopes.com. |  |