Puddles shine, like enchanted mirrors,
delivering coded messages from God.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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I paddle my bed
into the still-existing bathroom
and stare at my face in the mirror.
The floor is an ocean.
The wall is a door.
The windows no longer exist.
In the frame
I see a woman dancing,
held captive to a thousand strings.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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In my house, there are things that go bump in the night. Only they’re not ghosts, they’re gekkos; lizards in miniature – like tiny dragons or dinosaurs that have shrunk.
Hidden from sight, they live in my room behind the mirror, peering out from holes and cracks that seem to multiply as the creatures inside them expand and spread out.
Habit driven, compulsive, they wake religiously at 5am, their too’ing and fro’ing reminiscent of a cat on tiling, a possum on tin. Only these things are lighter… smaller… the weight of a sugar lump, the size of a sardine.
Making knuckle balls out of finger bone, my partner seeks to expel his anger, venting his manhood onto ears that are tired of listening. To them, we are the intruders; this, their home.
To think that in the beginning, it was just Gordon and Griselda… I doubt even Google could name them all now.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Rebecca L. Atherton 