Issue 10

Winter 2014



Although your furniture and clothes have gone,       
your words still hide throughout the house:           

typewritten or in your fearless, spiky hand,
lists of kings and queens, of planets and morse code –
you were always astonished by what we didn’t know –

and piles of half-full notebooks; we tear out the written pages
but angled to the light, your ghost prints are still there.
In your office, the clean, sharp smell of ink and pencil shavings,
and the typewriter in the corner, a toothy, open mouth,
waits to swallow sentences and spit them on the page:

I sit, my fingers on the keys, wanting you to speak.


Charlotte Eichler