Littlest, It’s Been Too Long
- Caridad Cole

- Mar 22
- 2 min read
by Caridad Cole
You fall from mother’s roof, her roots
wrap around your waist
and tickle your hips with split ends,
burnt outlines and dried up scents
cracking under the weight of great expectations
She has learned and now
you need to learn:
You weigh something like

gravity
in my tired expanse
You are sand
You are a mountain
You are brown and worn down
to your dullest pinks
You need to learn
to inhale shores
You need to learn
that your sense of self
is precariously
balanced
between
what I am willing to
give
and
what you are willing to
take
Trade the air escaping my slippery grip
(if you have to)
for something heavy
and capable of taking a breath:
a smile, a conscious smile
You don’t create meaning
She didn’t create meaning
I create meaning
of fleshy loss of control
That feeling when–
I create your thoughts,
Pulsing organs,
A pleasant color palette,
The satin ribbons gliding you through the air,
Small sounds to ease your guests as you glide through the air
She gives you seeds and freckles, rocks, ladybugs
but
appropriate imagery, only
leaves a mark on your body
You need to learn
you were a child yawning and waning still,
crying
Now you are a woman
***

Caridad Cole is a writer and filmmaker from forested Northeastern America who has appeared in Coffin Bell, Vocivia Magazine, BarBar, An Anthology of Rural Stories by Writers of Color 2024 (EastOver Press), and elsewhere. She is a 2025 Pushcart Prize nominee, 2025 BarBe Awards finalist, and was the 2018 recipient of three grants from Words for Charity for her work in magical realism. In 2023, she founded the speculative literary and art magazine, Moonday Mag. Though very busy searching for the sea witch who swallowed her charm bracelet, Caridad can be reached on Instagram @astrocari and at caridadcole.com.






Comments