Issue #8


I remember when you used to swing round
to paint the clouds and pull the hair from the ground.
You used to listen to the marble and watch the old men
wipe the money from their eyes and laugh.
You used to wait until the last,
you loved the way it snatched at opaque
and how its fingers fell silent when it slept.
You’d watch as the park
would carefully undo its wooden necklace
and stroll.
You loved the woollen tresses
and the sharp sirens they clutched,
hiding from the fire.
You used to play compassion.
You’d strum it with such conviction
that the raven on the back of my neck would cry
leave me, leave me.
So you did.
You’re fed up of evergreen stories and playing with time.
You don’t want to live in a canvas house
or run your steel gloves through the sand on my arms.
You wish to cut the silence my fingers sew
with scissors
and you want to grow your hair.
You want to close your piercing blues and fall.
You don’t like steam or water biscuits.
And I don’t want you anymore.

Hannah O’Brien