‘Go on, Cal.’
‘I feel stupid.’
‘None of us are listening. Get close and whisper.’
My name encircles a roundabout.
Cuttlefish washed up on a beach.
A dead bird on the lawn.
Millions of maggots stunned by sunlight.
‘Bye, Tess. Haunt me if you like. I don’t mind.’
A duck goes into a chemist’s to buy some lipstick.
A mouse dunked in water and held down with a spoon.
Three tiny air bubbles escaping, one after the other.
Six snowmen made of cotton wool.
Six serviettes folded into origami lilies.
Seven stones, all different colours, bound with a silver chain.
There’s sun in my teacup.
Zoey stares out of the window and I drive out of town. The sky gets darker and darker.
Let them go.
Adam blows smoke at the town below. Says, ‘Anything could be happening down there, but up here you just wouldn’t know it.’
Adam strokes my head, my face, he kisses my tears.
We are blessed.
Let them all go.
The sound of a bird flying low across the garden. Then nothing. Nothing. A cloud passes. Nothing again. Light falls through the window, falls onto me, into me.
Moments.
All gathering towards this one.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to the first and best of readers – Megan Dunn, Brian Keaney, Anne Douglas and Nicola Williams.
For her generosity (of spirit and space), thank you, Anne McShane.
For his insightful research, thank you, Andrew St John.
Thank you to my fellow writers at Centerprise Literature Development Project, for their continued support and encouragement – Nathalie Abi-Ezzi, Steve Cook, Sarah Lerner, Eva Lewin, Anna Owen, Stef Pixner, Jacob Ross and Spike Warwick.
And thank you, Catherine Clarke, for her faith.
Jenny Downham
