The best ruins remain
unforgiving, their brick carved
into a lidless eye.
That Time You Punched a Magpie by Jane O’Sullivan
“FUCKEN BWARK,” yelled the magpie, as it tumbled loose from the sky. “FUCKEN WHAT!”
You remember thinking—loosely—that it felt like plastic. Hard, and sort of dry. You remember that startled shimmer of surprise. Of joy, even. It felt good.
