You asked me
What I was writing about these days
And I lied like this:
‘We split open,
Two halves of a pale tree
From within crawled the twins,
Freakish and transcendent
Like butterflies that soar at night.
Beneath a moon
Solid and pitiless.’
You went to the bathroom,
And I lowered myself from the window by a knotted sheet
In my nightshirt and flat shoes.
A storybook orphan escaping into the night,
A clever maiden aunt
Outwitting the housefire.
By Nate Kuler
Nate Kuler is a shambles living in London, is twenty-five and still watches The Trap Door without irony.