Finnian Burnett

The Moon in My Window

The moon is in the wrong window. The birds on my windowsill throw their tawny heads back and sing as I approach. They shouldn’t be here at night, these creatures, chirping, almost howling at the moon, this wrong moon hanging low and full in the window.

The man is back, walking in the courtyard, his feet crushing rows of red poppies and daisies. I hear their cries and my hand presses against the glass as if anything I did could possibly stop him.

My homemade calendar, scratched into the frame with fingernails insists we’re in midsummer and Venus, intensely bright, confirms. The man kneels in the flowers, his hands stroke the crushed petals, blood red dye spreading across his fingers. My own fingers leave bloody streaks on the once white curtains.

The man cups his hands, lifting them to the sky. They dance and swoop in swirls and whorls, stealing the stars, the birds, the remains of the crushed flowers. I press my face to the window, screaming for him to stop, but he goes on, swooping and stealing and then even he disappears, leaving me alone with nothing.

Nothing but the moon and the moon is in the wrong place.