Untitled by Erin Lyndal Martin; for more information, visit


by Darla Mottram

I am building a little boat for the blame. I am pushing it into the stream.  See where it sails. See how I turn away. How I am not directing it toward you, toward anyone, even myself, not anymore. Let the water have it. Let it drown, or wash up against some distant shore.

This motion is nameless, or it has many names, and I too assume many shapes and boundaries.

And now I am a door swinging open for wind. And now I am the wind, ravaging.

I’m sorry you thought there was love. There was; it would be simpler to believe otherwise.

Truth is kaleidoscopic. Lies are straightforward. You like a good, logical argument.

Once there was the smell of Texas sage, a purple smell, pandemonious. I can’t smell it anymore.

About Darla Mottram

Darla Mottram lives in Portland, Oregon, where she works at a grocery store, writes, and goes for long walks. She maintains an online presence at darlamottram.net.