This month we offer dregs. Next month, we dwell in:

Spirals.

Submission guidelines can be found here.

I look for you

in the holes in
my socks, in the blurry
space between spinning
ceiling fan blades, in the flickering
bulbs of dying
traffic lights, in the grey
sludge of third-day
snow

as if I will
find you waiting
there, in my vision’s
corners, as if the
ladder to your
hiding place will not
splinter with each
step

as if you want
me
in the darkest
recesses of your
kitchen cupboards, under the
clutter of your
deepest desk drawers

seeking.

what else
am I
to do? toss out my
mind’s missing-child
milk carton as its
contents curdle behind a
grey-scale photo of your
face? wash the
tearstains from your
bedsheets and
hang them
out to dry?

no, I
will keep your
mold in my
air ducts, your
dirt under my
nails.

at least the dregs
you left me with
are easier to find.

Cailín Frankland (she/they) is a British-American writer and public health professional based in Baltimore, Maryland. Their literary criticism has appeared in The First Line Literary Magazine, their poetry has appeared in Eye to the Telescope (nominated for SFPA’s Rhysling Award), and their flash fiction has appeared in Flash Frog Magazine (nominated for Best Microfiction), Black Hare Press’s Dark Moments series, and My Galvanized Friend. They live with their spouse, two old lady cats, a rotating cast of foster animals, and a 70-pound pitbull affectionately known as Baby. You can find them on X as @cailin_sm.