Winter Solstice

I open my eyes. The room in semi-darkness, like a cave under the roof slope, which is covered by dark wooden panels. Patches of snow on the window. They dim the light. I can hear Jacob’s breath. Our sleeping berth is a mattress on the floor, in a foreign house. As I undress I unfurl

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Forest Noises

Three joints for him, three for me. For both of us, for him and me, he filled long white papers this morning. Rolled them and put them in a slender metal box. We go to the mountains, have spare time, spend it together. I spare myself of cutting vegetables, cooking spaetzle, bottling sorbet, sweeping the

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Summer Flights

It takes a while until the brake applies. A tiny squeaking. Hot wind grazing my cheek. Smells of tar, exhaust fumes and garbage hover above the three-lane roundabout. I turn and plunge in. Simon navigates between the cars. Turns round, shouts, l’opéra, behind you. He disappears between metal, the sound of horns, buzzing. I stop,

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Winter’s Child

I’m passing the hill, changing up. Third gear. Dark plain ahead of me, no back-lights to be seen. Edith sings the Milord, as I speed up. My hand resting on the gear stick. The long, drawn-out road feels like driving on dark shortpastry. Like the one sprawled on my mother’s table, when I was six

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