It is 3 am as I walk to the gate. Dew glitters in the grass like fallen stars. Naked trees are mannequins lining the street, where today’s newspaper lies unread. And on the corner the post box waits for an old friend. Even the sugar gliders are dormant. The silence is vivid. It burns like the red tip of a cigarette from these numb fingers. I think, perhaps, there’s Venus in the sky’s phosphorescent waves. Rain on the tarmac is a white bird with a silver tail, or a fish without eyes swimming into my arms. Last night my uncle’s wife died of a cancer that hollowed out her bones. I still have her locket in my dresser. Speak no more of guilt for the lies you leave behind, for me. Show me the disparity between delight and pleasure, if I should ask. Tonight, it is enough to walk no further than the gate.
© Michelle Cahill