| NIGHT FEED | |
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Michael Murphy | |
Perched on the edge of the bed, I am marvelling in silence at our daughter crashed out in your arms, milk-heavy, stoned on butterfat and casein. Her quick breath is a sheaf of smoke skittering down a field overtaken by rain, a blurry ghost we’re still learning to call our own. I whisper her name. She opens her eyes to starlight on the outskirts of a town where black hills kneel and a sclerotic owl brings an answer to the fieldmouse’s prayer. And even as I speak, I know that she will slip past whatever words we use with a soft, as it were, exhalation. | |