Hill Mouse, and: Wild Garlic, and: Flip Screen
2024; Wiley; Volume: 112; Issue: 3 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1353/tyr.2024.a936042
ISSN1467-9736
Autores Tópico(s)Garlic and Onion Studies
ResumoHill Mouse, and: Wild Garlic, and: Flip Screen Jen Hadfield (bio) Hill Mouse A still night. The islesout-sigh. A nearlyfull moon is inthe dark eyeof the hill mouse in ourcompost bin, silentlyta da!—on top of teabags carrot tops tough ends ofleek and tattie peel, all baroque andgarlanded with leopardslugs. Unmeek:it shows no fear—Ithink because it has none—underthe moon that has puta full stop after winterand is tilting us towardanother season, notspring. I flick the headtorch up—jumpingjacks spang off theilluminateddike—the round,cratered compost fallsinto eclipse. Fecund dial,overcrawled by Cinderella themouse, advancing onthe sweet pepper core and [End Page 35] towing a round caboose ofmouse-arse. She'semptied every littlekeg of the corncob, a hundredboozy, mouse-sizedshots—meanwhile, in thehouse, we're down to the dregs ofeverything from which Iwill cook a sort ofrisotto: the last of thesmoked haddock—iridescent flakes like mother-of-pearl—you just off your lastnight shift—the baby stillfighting sleep—stock-fatsultanas sticking to thepan and a spray of leavesfrom overwinteredcoriander. A glass ofwine between two. Moonlighton the sea. The tide turning. Our very great fortunelanding in our laps. And thehill mouse ducking justout of sight— as I pour largesse uponlargesse— [End Page 36] Wild Garlic it was a great trip, though the comedownwas this terrible thirstfor rain, mymouth a limedhollow, and all nightthe garlic-loud gladerepeated on me in psychedelicgusts: the forest floor wasa cracklingsea, and the sea was on firewith glossy, green flames. A hundred limbs did rotand drop from loose sleevesof moss – a civilizationof straight lines fell—deleted by li, and I heard the bark of my long-lost deep-green feral Gran— keep your trap shutabout this, breathe not a wordto anyone [End Page 37] Flip Screen On this day, 2019, Uncle John sent us, asa family, another groupemail—this movie of the fallingsnow as seen from his window—atleast, the subject header is "Snow" andthe walls of his unlit apartmentare cast in a blueishigloo light— then the roving lens cuts suddenlyas if he's hit "flip screen" by mistake, toswerve for a further, fulldreamscape minute across his topless midriff his belly, long, full and pale, across his gentleman-breasts: dizzy whisks of flyingwhite as he pans smoothly, as he thinks, overthe scene outside. At last, the lens catches his face from belowin an expression of wild,calm wonderment— a kind of solitaryelopement— [End Page 38] his mouth open ina mild smile like a responseto the koan, what is theoriginal countenance before birth? [End Page 39] Jen Hadfield jen hadfield* was the youngest-ever winner of the T. S. Eliot Poetry Prize in 2008. Since then, she has worked as a poet, a writing tutor, and an artist. Her most recent book is Storm Pegs: A Life Made in Shetland. Copyright © 2024 Yale University
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