The sodium glow of the horizon eradicates the stars on the night we sneak out. Wooden posts will not yield to thumbtacks and I blister. The children were to be poetry fairies, dusting laminated rhyme
The sodium glow of the horizon eradicates the stars on the night we sneak out. Wooden posts will not yield to thumbtacks and I blister. The children were to be poetry fairies, dusting laminated rhyme on an incarcerated village, an attempt to lift the curse, eviscerate the dragon but they argue loudly, stumble, wake a baby. My torch dies. Ten miles away a friend’s father lies prone, hospital gown gaped to betray a back heaving with machined breath. Ten thousand miles and the pyres heave with bodies, liquefying orange against the night’s edge. We stop, inhale, watch a bat sweep the above. The only living thing but us. We name him Bob.
KE Morash is a playwright and poet from Nova Scotia, now living in the UK. Her writing has received prizes and been published in Spelt, Ink, Sweat & Tears, Songs of Love & Strength; Live Canon Anthology 2019 and 2018; Room; Understorey; Literary Mama; Sentinel Literary Quarterly; Bare Fiction; and QWF, amongst others.