The Burial 

by Marina Lee 

He sees it creeping up beside the lake’s foaming edges, craving springtime and eternally falling short. Everything here is almost alive. Straw-like, timid, pulsing, disconcerting, he wonders why he’s even here at all. The water slumps and startles as if it’s losing its own train of thought, cyclically unsure if it even belongs in mother nature’s sickly casket. It’s the victim of an algae bloom, all plant vomit and death. He thinks the lake holds grudges. The moss holds down the soil, protective mush to the fungus threatening to end themselves at the water’s end. Or the water’s beginning. Whichever orientation the lake decides for itself. Either way, it’s a monstrosity. He tries checking the time, accidentally hitting his timepiece out of his pocket and against the singular jagged rock in his sightline. It cracks and the time is now lost. 

Once upon a time, the forest wanted to be quaint. All humming and sunlight and perpetually late afternoon. It is the forest of wrong place and wrong time. What is taking them so long? He wants to know if they’re late. The trees here are too weak for wicker and their sheepishness is contagious. He feels connected to them against his will. 

Soft, and always too sullen, it’s a wonder to exist at all. At the forest floor, there’s the kind of wet that seeps in stealth, and the man comes to the realization that sitting was a mistake. Where are they? 

This man has never said “I love you.” There is only one person he considered wavering for. And now they were making him wait. He sinks a little bit into the ground, the silt growing up his spine. The man measures his breath. Everything is haunted. Their only excuse for not showing up is to be dead in a ditch somewhere. 

He closes his eyes. His legs beneath the mud, arms braced against the surface, his chest compresses as the forest takes him in. Let the air belong to somebody else. He listens for hints of footsteps one final time, then opens his eyes. He wants one more look at the sky. One more look. He notices it’s one of those occasional skies with a daytime moon, the crescent playing oracle and harbinger to his end. The vines and moths rest on his head for just a moment, then wrap around his remains to take him forever and far below.

Author Bio: Marina Lee (they/them) is a grad student living in San Francisco. They enjoy public libraries, playwriting, and poetry. They also enjoy teaching.

Artwork: “The Birthing”

Artist Bio: Aleksandra Scepanovic's journey to sculpture began in socialist Yugoslavia in the 1980s. Her professional path traversed the realms of archaeology, war zones during the 1990s Balkans conflict, and interior design in NYC. Today, snippets from her past inspire Aleksandra's art, celebrating the bravery of continuation. Her sculptural work underscores Aleksandra's experience of migratory displacement and an enduring quest for a true likeness of identity, suspended between war, peace, and culture.