164
Kieran Borsden
in such haunting imaginings of places I have never been. I shall be alone tonight. Robert placed the box on his journal and opened the drawer to search for the black sticky tape he had used over the years to repair it. For a millisecond he saw a spectral shadow of his mother as he moved his head to the side. He spun his view to the direction of the image, but saw nothing there. There sits an angel weeping at my table, her vision partitioned by a wall of hands cupped; her head hanging as if a prayer could be too much breath for the tormented body to loose; her wings as rags of curtains felled and tattered; her frame contorted to wire, weak and feebly construed within the eye of the onlooker—