In the evening we walk past the ruined castle towards the loch. The sun is setting behind us. There is a walled garden full of rose bushes without a single bloom. It’s too late in the season.

In my dream, I was sitting in my usual seat at the round table in my grandmother’s kitchen. Next to it, in the living room, a heavy wooden bench where the sofa should have been, intricately carved with flowers, inlaid with bright mother-of-pearl

The moon rises above clouds— in the cold light, all is grey, and white. Night sky turns on a paper wheel.

Stone in fist. Rock in hand. Sand a canvas, moon not yet—

We fished with lines, not nets. My father came home once and put two shells in my hand.

[E]ither destroy the embryo in the womb, or cast it off when born Mary Wollstonecraft, 1792 No light streamed through the shutters when I woke this morning. I knew you had taken root this past night. I felt

He’d just been shopping. Nestled inside the bags were jars, tins, vegetables, maybe even a whole