Christian Ward is a UK based writer who can be currently found in Culture Matters and Poetry and Places. Future poems will be appearing in Sein Und Werden and The Pangolin Review.
The house inherited from my parents swarms at night with the body of moths maintaining it. Lights flicker. A television set in the front room struggles to retune itself. Fabric patterns reduced to fractals. Occasionally I witness this: Moths forming the outline of china and cutlery on the dinner table. The dot-to-dot of lamb chops, peas and potatoes. Father dressed in his Sunday best. Mother tip to toe in finery. The son, lost in a flurry of wing beats.
Part of the Mojave fell out of my jeans while rummaging for petrol money. Joshua trees shook pom poms of white flowers like cheerleaders while heading to the concrete, blue yucca gasped. Burrowing owls periscoped the unfamiliar surroundings. A gang of bighorn sheep with bicycle handle horns tried to hitchhike but didn't get far with a lack of thumbs. Roadrunners imitated cartoon counterparts, mountain lions became housecats after unsuccessful hunts. Somewhere among this is was an abandoned base with you inside, sending signals to a man on the fringes of the desert; the blue yucca's shadow burning an exclamation mark on the pavement.
The moon is in my bedroom though it's two in the afternoon. It wants an espresso to help forget the sky it came from, to stay and watch TV, eat Mexican food and gossip about minor planets, who might win Dancing on Ice. The moon doesn't care about my eyelids pulling the world's monuments - the Eiffel Tower coming to my window almost puncturing one of its craters; or that I'm starting to hallucinate former politicians, moths ghosting through the walls. It likes this place very much and has no intention of settling the bill.