Remy

CRUSHMoon It rises, nameless and requited, from the feather of a goose in grass to the angelpoise's reflection in the window still hanging after its switch has been pushed to O. it fills. It thins to whole nights of distraction. It goes.A black canvas - when one of us never musters "I love you" until the other leaves the room (as if the only things we mean get said in parenthesis and are perpetually marooned between the last quarter of the cold old and the first quater of the new). Sun 4:16 am, blissed on midsummer, making the most of the brush with a velvet dress and the scent of dewberry, I keep my secret, secret like someone else's change collected from the cigarette machine and saved for luck. I am too far gone to sleep. Much.I sing the praises of the strip-light's glimmer, the twittering land, the microwave. In kimono, slippers, I set the dial on the timer and wait as long as it takes. I stand before the sliding door, hiding a mandrin behind my back. I ask the day "Which hand?"Conor O'Callaghan