issue four / panacea
wild hope
Gina Gidaro
summer
you picture her in the trees, a greenhouse of hope and intentions and fireflies. the air tastes like
sweet tea and mint chocolate chip ice cream. within your ribcage is a cavern of lavishing ivy,
hidden and wastrel. and yet, she breaks apart your upholstered soul and you watch movies
outside, the dew making promises out of green and gold. embers reach for the sky like longing
fingers. the two of you fly through the canopies, getting tangled in wild reed. you teach her to
swim where her feet can't touch, bare toes sweeping past silhouettes of the unknown. dragonflies
dance around you in the candy-colored skies. you tell her to run so she does.
autumn
change withers green to brown and there is a soft breeze that blows leaves across the driveway.
tree limbs block paths like ebbing bones that do not fit anymore. she abandons those currents of
sentiments for syllables in the dark, and you lose your mind over the desires of a silly girl. she
tosses wood into the fire and watches it burn and smother and crumble. she plays games of hide
and seek in barren cornfields while hands reach through her honey-dipped words only to grasp
tides of emptiness. she begins to look away. cicadas sing hymns of wreckage and quiet deaths but
a flowerbed grew in your cavern and begs you to cling tight. hope never lingers, it suffocates.
winter
with so much convenience in ignorance, your greenhouse is buried under layers of snow.
winterberries glow crimson against the silver meadows of things lost. you walk around aimlessly
in a fathomless home even after that brisk air breaks the world open. you think of running away,
of chasing the pearl moon but everywhere is a graveyard of dreams, forgotten in shades of blue.
starry midnights leave a bitter taste of guilt on parched lips and there is an echoing stillness in
your abandoned cavern. something has been left for dead and dragged away into the night and
when the ghosts come out of their graves she directs their path your way.
spring
time is to blame for the embroidery of wounds. invisible scars on pale, thawing skin are like
raindrops gliding down windowpanes after a long drought. cardinals and white trilliums mark an
evergreen persistence. souvenirs from the Great War. but what could be left of you? your feet are
sore from running over dreadfully inconvenient things. the two of you wait for that morning
glory but the sunrise only brings a peculiar kind of loss. something has been left behind. she sips
lavender coffee while sunbeams travel up your spine. you recall that lost hope buried under
puddles of pain and decide, once and for all, that this is how wildflowers are made.
you picture her in the trees, a greenhouse of hope and intentions and fireflies. the air tastes like
sweet tea and mint chocolate chip ice cream. within your ribcage is a cavern of lavishing ivy,
hidden and wastrel. and yet, she breaks apart your upholstered soul and you watch movies
outside, the dew making promises out of green and gold. embers reach for the sky like longing
fingers. the two of you fly through the canopies, getting tangled in wild reed. you teach her to
swim where her feet can't touch, bare toes sweeping past silhouettes of the unknown. dragonflies
dance around you in the candy-colored skies. you tell her to run so she does.
autumn
change withers green to brown and there is a soft breeze that blows leaves across the driveway.
tree limbs block paths like ebbing bones that do not fit anymore. she abandons those currents of
sentiments for syllables in the dark, and you lose your mind over the desires of a silly girl. she
tosses wood into the fire and watches it burn and smother and crumble. she plays games of hide
and seek in barren cornfields while hands reach through her honey-dipped words only to grasp
tides of emptiness. she begins to look away. cicadas sing hymns of wreckage and quiet deaths but
a flowerbed grew in your cavern and begs you to cling tight. hope never lingers, it suffocates.
winter
with so much convenience in ignorance, your greenhouse is buried under layers of snow.
winterberries glow crimson against the silver meadows of things lost. you walk around aimlessly
in a fathomless home even after that brisk air breaks the world open. you think of running away,
of chasing the pearl moon but everywhere is a graveyard of dreams, forgotten in shades of blue.
starry midnights leave a bitter taste of guilt on parched lips and there is an echoing stillness in
your abandoned cavern. something has been left for dead and dragged away into the night and
when the ghosts come out of their graves she directs their path your way.
spring
time is to blame for the embroidery of wounds. invisible scars on pale, thawing skin are like
raindrops gliding down windowpanes after a long drought. cardinals and white trilliums mark an
evergreen persistence. souvenirs from the Great War. but what could be left of you? your feet are
sore from running over dreadfully inconvenient things. the two of you wait for that morning
glory but the sunrise only brings a peculiar kind of loss. something has been left behind. she sips
lavender coffee while sunbeams travel up your spine. you recall that lost hope buried under
puddles of pain and decide, once and for all, that this is how wildflowers are made.
Gina Gidaro has a bachelor’s degree in creative writing and a minor in studio art from Ohio University. She received a graduate certificate from the Denver Publishing Institute, is a volunteer reader for CARVE Magazine, and is an editor for the Outlander Zine and SeaGlass Literary Magazine. She is passionate about stories and anything spooky. More of her information can be found at https://ginagidaro.wordpress.com.