Alex Mazey

Bread and Salt

The London Magazine - - NEWS - Alex Mazey

The light­house was some­where in the south of his coun­try, that stood un­used in the wet smoke that rose from the sea, maybe no more than ten me­tres be­low the candy stripe, that looked no bet­ter now, than as the day it was painted.

No longer a boy, he works twelve hours a day, with two cig­a­rette breaks, be­cause he is lucky. An At­lantic oil rig with cold fin­gers that reach deep in to the earth, dredg­ing the old bones of what’s left. I don’t know what else to say.

So much of noth­ing can be said, and is said. Words like a sub­stance can spill in to the ocean of my­self like a se­cret. Give me some­thing. Twelve hours a day to for­get every­thing. Two cig­a­rette breaks and the smoke that might rise from the sea.

Give me all of what you can­not drink and should never taste. Give me the taste of your cherry piero­gies, and the name of your sis­ter who cooked them in but­ter. Tell me how she left her life of turn­ing down bed sheets be­fore she left again to die.

Tell me about our board of yel­low wood, our father’s boots rest­ing to­gether on the tools of some­one else’s construction; where we’d work in the rain, and in the sun, and in the win­ter. Where we’d wait for the en­gines to melt the snow in to ice.

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