i.m. E.V.A Cowell Some say grief is a lookout-tower, a swinging cage rigged beside the heart, battering a plume of sail. Some find an anchor, slipping its noose and on the sand, unloosed – a canary, a little sun rising up.
I’ve circled this research station a million times in darkness, a million times in daylight to send your messages home …So far away…I miss you… Not long left now… Save. Send. Wait for a response. I relay your metadata on ocean warming and thinning ice to labs across the world. Nowhere too far away. Your […]
Just checking in on whether the eyes are low? In haste. Just thought I’d see if the bone is sharp? Speak soon. Quickly following up on whether the heart is honed. Cheers now. Just quickly following up on whether the nerves are ripped! Much love! Just quickly checking in on if the throat is cracked? […]
Forbearers tell the story of Lindbergh touching down on the runway of sand, his pants full of shit, his heart full of child. The islanders named a beach after him. Forbearers tell the tale of Oppenheimer docking at the island not Manhattan. His head bursting out of the window, so the islanders named a beach […]
After Mass, my gentle brother folded thoughts
and messages into paper boats, all sharp