It’s hot. It’s

not         where   I

want to be. But,

I wait.

I know it’s

wrong – so wrong.

But I’ll not change

it – yet.

For now, it’ll

do           just fine.

Sitting, waiting. All

the while


Sometimes, you

just wait              

and it comes.

It all works out in the end.


Drought ~ Elizabeth Rose

February 18, 2008


(the bold
young boy
hot and thirsting
gives water to the
sun-crisp soldier
and returns to
his mother,



Bio – Elizabeth Rose Murray has a regular haiku slot on dogmatika, fiction on savage manners and 3am, flash fiction on six sentences plus poetry in The Ranfurly Review, DeComposed and The Beat. She also writes poetry critique and getting published blogs and is writing a novel. She lives in the south of Spain.

I don’t know how, but they knew she would wait. Like some compliant virgin with busy fingers exploring, yearning to know how it could feel, no longer mindful of the white handkerchiefs in auntie’s grasp. Neither was deluded by her “Perhaps!” as though their fates were waxen, imprinted with the scent of apples. He said “I always get what I want” The shadows of ram’s horns follow his sundown smile as he leaves. Fuck, she loved a compliment, especially when the outlines were so badly chalked! He was far too young for her. But, she emanated sex; I guess that was part of her charm. She had always had this inside her. Her sexuality danced like the death of a bull by the matador’s sword. An impermanent strength impaled her desire. A lie smiled on her lips.  

She would welcome him this day. There had been opportunity before but she had been unwilling until the allotted time drew near, embroiled in fortune and fantasy. She thought him an arroyo, eager to learn; her Dumuzi. It would be delicious, deserved and would betray. As always; wine flowed, a ritualistic ascent to some barren grounds and augural display. Blood and red thirst quenched, making precious the faces of those cheated. Innocent hollows passed by like slaughtered ghosts. The two laughed, teacher and disciple. Their laughter resounded, making the moments slowed and her need painfully beguiling. 

He did not disappoint. Her experience expected inattentive hands like shovels against crusted earth, but he knew her, breathed her; grew into her with the lucidity of water. And his warmth? Oh so gentle. She felt starving as he filled her, she drank so deeply. She wanted him further, harder, but, he had not yet matured enough to understand the pleasure this could bring to a woman. He imagined the horrors she had told him in silence from afar. He could not unchain the link like he could unhook her single handed; his hunger vivid as hers. His stamina won a worthy contender.  

This could be no first time tryst; their understanding locked as tightly as his hold and she had to return his gifts. She lifted herself and lowered onto him. His marbled surface made her strength shatter in his appreciative gaze and so she followed his form, rubbing the edges away so the picture moved outside the frame. She dug her toes deeper into the lion’s mane, tasted some fossilized tablet. They echoed amongst cobwebbed beams. She had to show him what she knew, make her world fertile once again. He spoke pleasure in the swell and looked through her into their pasts. Both learned the silence of the future. They sweated, and came together.  

Afterwards, they talked. He teased a curl and her lips as she left. Only after the moment has passed and the unmistakable arms were lost in the tide of the day, she realised his beauty. His arrogance made him, I guess. Hers was undone; sculpted back from where she lay, loosened. She went to her husband, aglow; renewed. She had to discover what relics remained; buried deep in the loam. As she undressed again, her cast shadow is horned and searching, making her brighter. One failed drawing, ready to be over ridden. His gift: her different medium.

And so, the unfathomable depths gaped like a tormented snake. The sound was as enticing yet frightening and she  moved with unusual grace toward him. She stroked his head, massaging the thoughts away. Inside she cried.

Inside. Always inside.  A tumultuous blaze of thought after thought.

Emotions wrought – always aware. A tiger that never sleeps; she could feel his pain. Again, she understands. But understanding can be too much. It can suffocate the loved. And so she stilled her knowledge, rolling the beast around her, awaiting it to change its form. Awaiting the moment when light could enter and could be passed in the caress of small warm hands. She will save him.

The tight creases subside, momentarily. But the anguish is apparent . A green pebble lost to the sea.  A soul reborn, struggling to breathe and enjoy that breath. The gentle strokes continue. Absorbing the oceans depth, internalising the roar. Time is just a concept. It will be restored with the return of his soul. She offers maternal limbs; the gift of herself.

She knows that words will not soothe. They may be desired but they will ensnare a bite. And so … inside. Always inside. Powering the gentle touch that placates and nourishes.  Defying the weakness coursing through, enjoying the aches that her support brings.  Wondering …

Her attention distracted briefly, her glance returns to find him lighter.

And then she cannot breathe either. Can not enjoy the breath for she understands, too much. A slight withdrawal and the tiger takes fright.

Drowning in the tides that carry the heaviness, laden with the raw flesh of truth.

The gentle strokes continue, though the light has dimmed. A mute siren with only herself to offer, without faith in long lost saints. Heavy flesh a burden and she damns her mortal state.  Cursing her abilities to understand and nurture, she suffocates in the knowledge of herself. Knows that she can not save him. She has killed him.

Inside, always inside.


Elizabeth Rose –

I am from the UK  living in a small village in the south of spain, enjoying the crazy mixture of expats and spanish fighting to communicate! I write, paint and tutor for a living.