The worst part of seeing figments is not seeing them. My life is not so hard except for that—alone in a world which moves around me as a silent film, or is too far away to touch, or is as a fantasy. I am as distant to myself as someone I read […]
I have been alone with the thing itself. The depression. The defective heart. God. Inside my mind it is dawn. A wolf appears with a bird in its mouth. Blue feathers, my fate, the beautiful white throat. "Bathing" is from To See the Queen (Persea Books, 2013).
Since I was the one who had been ill, it was she who came to see me. Everyone wanted a glimpse of her. The people emerged from their houses toward mine and with such caution. They made a visor of their hands. It was as if they were to be accounted for, wading the long […]
My father is watching his father die on a lime-green pillow. The tumours nestle in his crotch like the eggs of a sparrow. Birds smash into pillars of glass and concrete on my iPhone. The plastic silhouette of a hawk wards the hospital windows. Like iron filings, the sky is magnetised […]
I was not bothered by the stitching under your eye until we reached the plateau and you fell in the heather where a barbed wire fence covered a seam in the sky, stitching the clods of earth and the clouds together as if it would take no more than a turn of the wind […]