(I sit on the edge of a bench facing an overgrown field that has been infiltrated by daylilies. Orange heads bobbing above tall weeds and lush grass. Cleverly disguised snipers waiting in trenches. They call them the Ditch Lilly.
An old man sits on the bench next to me. Nods his head. Crosses his legs. Horned-rimmed glasses perched precariously on his nose. The Ohio River laps at the muddy bank at the edge of the field. A warm breeze mixes the scent of freckled petals with the man’s aftershave.
He stares at the current, eyes reflecting darker waters, and clears his throat,)
“The lilies grow wild here.”
Elizabeth A. Davidson currently resides in southern Ohio and is an MFA candidate at Lindenwood University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in By&By Poetry, Apeiron Review, and Tamsen. Twitter / Facebook