Your Last Orbit
did you just die. I can’t hear those wings anymore. that beating gone silent. you were bashing your skull against the IKEA lamp I got last week. a circle of white light pulling you into the tin shade, electric heat. I sat here at the typewriter, sick with the flu, fingers hitting the keys. listening
The Dead Letter
that summer morning arrived hot and sticky, the air thick and close, bright sun blasting through the kitchen window while the girls tore around the place scribbling homework frantic, yanking plimsolls from under beds, hunting lunch boxes, stuffing in raisins and cucumber slices and little yoghurt tubs – all that packed-lunch madness before the school