The mosquito droned louder than the ruffle next door and when it drifted between the verse I slammed the pages shut. Furious words squirted onto my face. Tess Gallegher writes about kisses like a fairytale Princess would, after She'd grown old and had an MA in English Lit. She died the year I was born and here I am, leering. She was a teacher, and I wish she’d taught me. Had I a liberal arts degree elsewhere and no baggage I would (perhaps) feel less shame for using language that isn’t mine to complain about these bejewelled manacles a thousand years long. And I would (perhaps) feel less shame for my silence then, when the Men took my neighbours away and called a Blessing this unseasonal sorrow under a spring sun. Here I am rumpled instead. The pages are pristine. The mosquito got away anyway. —--- by P.N., who continues to go mad under lockdown.
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