my first photograph
was one of mum and dad
on the moon
mum looking at dad lovingly, dad eyeing me warily
(always fretting about whether something or other would succeed)
in the background a giant new year tree
shielding them from asteroid shards
flying in a moonish dimension
dad was wearing a plaid shirt the kind I
guess every yugoslav man must’ve had
back then. it could be seen in the DIY pages
for men in the burda magazine
mum was wearing an infrared tracksuit made out of material
which absorbed the strains of endless giving. mum . . . cut from the cloth
of housework and emotional labour, in slippers which weren’t à pompons
dad paranoid, mum head over heels
dad afraid that all beauty would perish
mum unafraid, unstoppable, laying tracks to it
I was seven and I still hadn’t
developed the ritual of imagining sinking in an...

You do not currently have access to this content.