We are saying nothing


 written in a stolen pen 

                            by my own hand kept
                            shake-free by the things i     wandered-through-the-smoke-for, ray bradbury in hand


i, thirsty, frank, realise why
the smoke that morning meant so little, how i ignored it darkening the brown of the imported Harakeke--
Tapered on the curb like that. trampled, written about, smiling. The plant reminded me of something i saw in a notebook somewhere.
i grimace at night now


        The sad:

- The tan hard face of a juggler, tongue gone limp when he voids his ice cream to the footpath, my dad cries

- The woman eating a bowl of sand

        The image:

Your face. I think of your face-- my own i am consciously unaware of,

yes. my face is unattainable without a mirror

- I, i could kill for a durry

- ‘Candescent thighs’--my shivering spine


        and the dead:

- That ‘prefect’s’ shoes on grass, grass on linoleum, off, on, off. No, no, no Novi Sad.

Each new day begins a new flurry
In list form they bleed.

I hear them, you know, the images

I think of two-days-ago images,



Theressa Malone is the founder and editor of Milly, and is also a writer and german literature student. She edits for Headland and Pif. You can check out some of her other work here.

Contact us

for any ideas, pitches, submissions, job applications, feedback, or general queries:

 Email Theressa