Welcome to Issue Three of LossLit Magazine.
You pray to the blue light house,
be alive, be lingering, dear beleaguered.
I stopped by Abney Park to mourn a dead lover I never had. Her face flapped in the wind, slipped into a plastic wallet that was speckled with droplets of the morning dew; the features organised into an expression I couldn’t decipher.
I have lived in fifty houses
It was the last thing I took to bed with me, a she, a cat, human in that it knew me.
She is dark against the square of light. The back of her, curved now, looks mutely upon the green space caught tight within that square. I know how it stretches, how it rolls out to the foot of the mountain and gathers up there, but this sharp triangle of grass, this geometry, fed in through that one portal of light, is all she knows.
Today I received my decree absolute. I’ve never been married, this was the millennial’s version; an email confirming that the deposit I’d paid on the flat I’d shared with my ex-partner of six years had been refunded.
When I cried out “He left us!” from a woven mat in my living room, us meant me and my three children. I might have added to that his brothers, but I did not mean his small house, who walked in just at that moment.
Every dawn she looks up, sucks on doing words
to break her fast, breathes in the day.
Head sweat frozen by heat. Eyes peeling out of their sockets, each individually draped in a woolly blanket that itches and irritates. Shoulders have fallen off; the tendons lie bare and stretched. Throat pushes boulders down to soft shit lungs. Creased horrid underwear hovers dripping ooze on neon soft mat.
All through the early summer I watched blue tits flying in and out of the nesting boxes, one fixed to the wall among the rambling roses in the garden, the other next to the apricot tree in the orchard.