by S.C. Flynn, he/him
In a strange land, everyone does what he must.
As usual, the bird in my dream was a dove
covered in blood that sat on my clothes rack,
preening itself, spattering my shirts red.
I catch and devour small kindnesses
as if they were locusts full of the ripe fruit
of domestic life. But for my honey.
I savour the sweet hours of silence
and peace, reading obituaries
of people I’ve never heard of.
I pile up my writings on the floor
where they will crumble unread.
Somewhere out there must be others like me,
each one a centre, sharing
in the vastness of the sphere,
but the space between us is cold and dark.
