Issue Four

Summer 2012



This is how it was: a dance perhaps, or
sometimes in the cinema’s plush dark
lit by a match, a cigarette. A walk
after the last bus was long gone: you know
those story lines, the comfort of fixed form
that frothed to wedding white (a virgin lie)
then ran its course. The black and white of it
framed on the sideboard, and the children came
neatly, at intervals; the template’s fit
never quite right, but almost, till the time
a face, a look—a cup smashed on the floor,
doors slammed, unsilenced, all the house undone
by that new making, every smile and kiss.
Oh love, when were there ever rules for this?


D. A. Prince



poppy closeup