Rosie Garland

the astronomical menagerie

The Comet prowls from wall to wall, flicking the plume of her tail. She ignores the climbing frame, the swing rope, the unbreakable mirror that fractures her expression.

I keep up as best I can, mopping pools of shed light so visitors don’t slip and land us with a lawsuit. Despite the notices, they pound her window, laying bets on how long they can touch the glass before their fingers smoulder.

The brightness of her claws. The crackle of her mane. Her beard a river of fire. Back and forth, she flows. Her spittle sizzles potholes in the floor.

Why doesn’t she play? they ask. She has so many toys. She crawls to the corner where the arc light can’t reach, turns to the wall. They straggle out, complaining of migraines. They’ll queue for hours to throw bread rolls for the Red Giant to incinerate midair; prefer meteor showers that perch upright, sparkling prettily.

The Comet cramps in space the shareholders have deemed sufficient. Every moment of every day, she grinds a rut, watching for a weakness in the fence. At night, when the visitors have gone, she unravels. Inhales lungfuls of universe; spills it out. Fills every square inch of her enclosure, could fill a million more.

I hide her discarded radiance in bottles, take it home and wash my hair. Scrub my limbs with her. The sting when I brush my teeth.

I know where the keys are stored. But I need her light. Her beauty. I buy her a hairbrush, pearl-handled tweezers, tiny golden scissors. At each gift, she shakes her head. There are holes in her eyes. It hurts when I peer through.

I kiss the window that stands between us, melt skin. Promise escape, crowds running and shrieking. I promise sky.

Writer and singer with post-punk band The March Violets, Rosie Garland has work in Spelk, Ellipsis, Butcher’s Dog, The North etc. Her new poetry collection What Girls Do in the Dark (Nine Arches Press) is out in October 2020. In 2019, Val McDermid named her one of the UK’s most compelling LGBT+ writers.