A chick had fallen out of a branchonto the pavement: wrinkled, purplebody no longer than the palm of my hand. It had stubby knobs instead of wings, a blue film over the eyes, no feathersto speak of. I didn’t know birds were born naked as we are. A group of us kids gathered around, and…
Tag: Childhood
Torque
A dishevelled man placed his palmon my son’s head and said“Hello, Mason.”We were on the number 8 bus.We had never seen this man before.The sky was the exact greyof the seats we were sitting on. My son looked up at meand I could see a white-hot wireglowing behind his eyes.I said “He must have heard…
The Year Our Children Left
This was the way our children left, in the year they left us behind. They got all–how shall we put it–self-righteous and accusatory, the way children can get when they come to understand that nearly everything they’ve been told is some form of a lie. They said to us, how dare you? How dare you…
Baby Talk
They look up and gurgle and coo. They are plump and wide-eyed and smiley. They stare at the bubbles that float by. They are hypnotised by the mobile that plays the Brahms Lullaby. They sleep deeply, dreaming of . . . what? The struggle to get here? The months trapped in the warm liquid? The…
Five Imaginary Babes
In time I’ve had five babies. The first one was boneless and meatless; it was a puggish fold of skin, and I would throw it on the ground in disgust where it would puddle up and gurgle little flatulent gusps that were almost cute but stank like dank pot. Within a few days, having accidently…
Akela
had us in her nesting boxone evening every week creosote wood haven in a rustic islandoff The Ridgeway she had us filed in sixeshalf dozens in green plumagewool and skullcaps slippingover brylcreem short back and sides arms stitched with badges this weekday evening goddesshad us raising two stiff fingerstilted like pistol barrels at our heads…