The Scarf This is the scarf Miranda makes. It is the scarf that she knits and knits and knits in strips of colours she picks from the current selection of wool in the hospice shop and that flows from the chest at the end of her bed down the stairs...

      The Mattress Conspiracy   None of us saw it coming.  It was slow and subtle.  First, a lot of small stores went out of business.  We wouldn’t miss them.  They were tiny – nail salons, currency exchanges, party stores, boutiques, all of them...

  It Starts with Her Awkward Hairline the bit behind her ear, along the bone, I accidentally on purpose stroke as the comb starts to move freely. Her head between my knees, a kiss on her lobe — something she wouldn’t get in a salon — and fingers that look for...

    Missing Silverware Phantoms annoy my memory palace Late at night into early morning light, Streeling through the halls like banshee, they sing Dissonantly and claim to be me Or my siblings or old friends and lovers, Even to aping our gestures, taking Our...

      Love Love speaks in a manna-song, one that God might try on prophets. Don’t guess and tell, it says. You stumble down and through the gaping cave, giddy with self-consciousness and breathless ephemera. Don’t ask, says Love. Don’t assume. So you...

      Tying the bowline Slipped back on itself through the first loop, the rope forms a round window. You’re halfway in. Slick as a snake charmer you guide your needle point to pierce the eye, that tooth-shaped space, as words unravel me until nothing...