Issue 9

Autumn 2013


The Splash

It comes back to me sometimes; his body
pulled from the dirty pond, algae dripping
from an elbow, weed tangled around knees.

He’d been screeching about the garden
firing shots from his polystyrene plane,
us adults bickering in the kitchen –

the weight of a peach against a plum,
if Charlotte Church was the antichrist,
a spud that looked like Jesus –

and outside the splash, a gasp breaking
through his own wake like the pressure
released from a fizzed can of coke.

A stillness washed over everyone
when we saw the wooden toggle of his coat
bobbing, like a buoy on an ocean.



James Giddings