Written by Irene Cunningham

Parched grass crackles beneath him…nothing
like the juicy green of a bluebell wood.

He looks comfortable, lying on her grave,
listening. All those times his own business

swept her into corners, and now, five feet
of dirt between them, dense as castle walls.

Heat bears the sky in this dead landscape.
Notebook and pen wait to catch a whisper

copied in his best script on crisp, lined paper,
the sense of her subtle rush for perfection.

Home was her art. Now this elderly student
can’t wait to confess the horrors committed

in her kitchen. Too old to work he meanders
days continuing her life. His light hysterical

laugh froths over headstones at the brittle

idea of normal in such a game of skittles.