The Death of the Heirloom
by Desmond S. Peeples

CLEARY walked into work that day to the oscillating roar of the grinder. Accompanied by the high whine of the cider press, the machines always voiced their industrial anger at every frequency, so that all the ear could hear and all the mind could think was laced with their metals.
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Bank tellers will ask you if you have a preference when you cash a check
"I’ll have it chaste with a dusk descent."
is your answer and you look almost normal on your driver’s license

Only one of us had been to the funeral and felt stories from his relatives burrow deep, Sinclair’s stubbornness, Sinclair who knew his own mind. A boy, an early worker in the plastics factory, on holiday with his wife and children, and they brought with these photographs the knowledge that his life had been his very character. Around the bar when I lifted my head were night owls arranged in small groups, frequently pairs of people not yet in their cups. A relation wanted to be privately drunk. I kiss.

In the corner of our garden
There was a sprung ribcage,
And we placed a blue candle
Inside of its maw.

During the summer we had watched it for hours,
Sat on the trunk of a pear tree
Newly garroted
For growing too tall.

At first, we joked about our animal lantern
But in truth we had begun to believe
That if kept well lit
It would shield us from harm.

It had bound us finally as steersmen,
Each dreading
A wind cold enough
To put an end to its light.