Christopher Mooney-Singh

Student Farmhouse, 1977

We convoy through the hills to Katie and Trog’s rented farmhouse with our plates of potluck. We're also armed with ice-coolers of beer and casks of Chateau Cardboard red in plastic bladders. Afterwards, Trog brings out his homegrown stash, and lighting up, a Jimi Hendrix solo rips through the speakers unzipping my forehead. I drift outside and lie down, a ghost beneath the iron bark gums. I'm floating up to the Milky Way, but Tchaikovsky’s "1812" drops on the turntable. Cannon volleys, chimes and brass jerk me back into my body. It takes a while to find again that armistice in the grass.

satellites whiz
across the moon…
no, they’re mosquitoes