| CHO Current Issue | Contents Page - This Issue | Articles | Archives |
March 2009, vol 5 no 1
|
Graham High Blister Pack moon dissolved in cloud— the medicine cabinet mirror-door swings shut As it closes, she glimpses her reflection; but her hands and mind are busy. There is the repeated 'pop', 'pop', of tin foil: the shiny violation of dozens of silver bubbles. Now she has a pile of the little white discs. They might be seeds or small planets. She scoops them into her largest glass tumbler, half full of water. There is the overwhelming hiss of fifty Disprin all dissolving at once. The rush of sound in her ear is an ocean. Drink it down, drink more. The flush fills her completely, like the sea. I'll show him. He'll be home soon, and he'll find me here. After this he'll have to listen to me - take me seriously. The glass falls from her hand. It is the only remaining one of a set he'd bought for her in Venice. That was when we were happy, many moons ago. This last phrase strikes her as ridiculous. It swirls around in her head until it finally dissolves. She sinks to a sitting position. The vinyl tiles are cold. As cold as real marble. I'll just slide down here on the floor. He'll find me. If he's not with her he'll be back here soon. If he IS with her, then . . . The world enters a timeless silence. In the street below there is the small persistent movement of a shadow. thin light of the moon on the rim of the knocker that receives no answer |