By Merran Jones
Copper fields push back the woods. The sun spills the last of its warmth as cattle drag their shadows across the ground. The treacle air is thick with heat.
When they met in the church hall that Saturday night, George was Gene Kelly out of the rain and Stella was tulled and rouged like a kewpie doll. Now in their eighties, they dance in the kitchen under the fluorescent globe that flickers and buzzes overhead. Tomorrow their son Andrew, who visits every second Sunday, will change it.
Index of sent mail (astrid.p.lorange at gmail dot com). Keywords supplied by an undisclosed collaborator and then searched, collected and edited according to emergent themes, syntactical sublime. The archive of sent mail represents the vast majority of the labour of writing – here rearranged as an appendix, poem collection. Illustrations by Irit Pollak.
The red ink was running dry. As each sheet came out of the printer and piled itself on top the last, Pickles the cat looked greener, his eyes taking on a zombie-like hue. Leanne had already resigned herself to never finding Pickles, figured he probably did look more like a zombie cat – mashed by car tyres – than the blurry cat in the photo taken when he was a kitten. But Madeleine was determined that her pet would return, if only they tried, so Leanne printed off twenty-five copies of the poster.