Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts

Entrance Exam

by Mathew Woodman

New hands glow
translucent blue.

We are lost for words.
We are lost.

All we can do is watch
our breath against the snow.

All we can do is hold
ourselves perfectly still.

The moon is quiet.
The moon is cold.

We can’t wait to grow old.