There are few sounds sadder than the plinky-plonk of Greensleeves from a passing ice cream van.  Mickey Mouse’s face plastered on its arse, rainwater rivulets streaking down his grimy cheeks.

Evelyn Battersby was a difficult woman to please, an easy one to disappoint. When her children brought their gifts on silver salvers she would sniff, wrinkle her nose, send them back to the kitchen.

Henry leafed through the applications on his desk, sighed, picking up the first one.
Application no. 56/438/b
Activity/Description: Cheese rolling.  A large rinded cheese placed at the top of a hill. . .

Into the Hills

. . . Every day he would wake up and rearrange his sense of self, renew his memories of the world before, and head back into routine in order to make the next paycheck. . .

Sunday afternoon there’s always roast dinner. Then mum and dad go to church. The twins stay and wash dishes. Elder-twin picks up a plastic bag with unused Brussels sprouts inside. The cellar door is open.

the highway asphalt. reeks of exhaust and burnt rubber. the cars and trucks go by. the sun boiling and you rotting.

snow crystals
on my neighbor’s windows …
Foreclosure askew

& more

Empty Basket

Driving down the boulevard, I see large trees decorated with pink and white blossoms, evergreens tower over houses, trees flourish with spring greenery.

We are in the bath, your hands
around my back, mine around yours—
everything covered in a fog.

as a child, I learn to eat words

fill me up with words
brittle like sugared almonds
they crunch in my bones

Amaleena Damlé