Upon my arrival, your obdurate soul is wide awake. Daytime’s tattered rags have been tidied and numerically filed away. You’re fumbling with something but don’t let me see. I can smell the acrid headiness of danger in the disinfectant-laden air. It cloys at my uvula before entering my lungs to catch on my breath. You tap me on the shoulder and show me your treasures, pictures of all of us from your wallet. I watch while you fan them with a flourish like a magician’s deck of cards. Outside the moon unmoors itself from its perch and kisses the ground.
Catherine O’Brien is an Irish writer of poems, flash fiction and short stories. Find Catherine on Twitter @abairrud2021.