by Ewen Glass

I’m not supposed to acknowledge the thing that is to be acknowledged. The only thing. The right thing. And in wrong heads here, in the car and by the sea and not understanding her by being under her spell. And in this car. And by the sea. And all I want to do is ask her in the most poised, dispassionate way possible if it isn’t reasonable that I acknowledge it. And if I do and if she doesn’t and if we can’t, may we drive straight ahead at the lights and into the sea and might I be given license to scream as salt water enters through windows and tell her that I only think it’s reasonable to acknowledge it. At this point, I’m not saying we deal with meaning or mark, deep and discoloured; might I just bring it up? I notice you refer to it obliquely; perhaps it’s a threat. Do you know the thing I am not supposed to acknowledge? If I’m not supposed to, I suppose you must. And I must move forward, as that car in my mind, the one that careened into the sea with the characters. With those two. One of them never said a word as the car went under, though I suppose he reckoned he was screaming. And the older one, she looked, not pleased exactly, but like the journey was just right.

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Ewen Glass is a screenwriter and poet from Northern Ireland who lives with two dogs, a tortoise and lots of self-doubt; on a given day, any or all of these can be snapping at his heels. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Okay Donkey, HAD, Poetry Scotland, Gordon Square Review and elsewhere. Twitter & IG: @ewenglass