about the author

Dalton Day is a twenty-something out of Asheville, NC. He is a wild thing. He is little. He can’t play the banjo. He loves drag queens and soft things. Dalton’s work can be found in Foxing Quarterly, The Legendary, and Used Furniture Review, among others. His first chapbook, Supernova Factory, was released in May 2013 by On the Cusp Press.


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My mother has a black bag that she keeps her nights in. She stuffs them in there, bit by bit. The feathery stars. The quiet of the sun being led away on a bruised ankle. The moon she drips in, slowly, so that not one bit gets out. She has no time for waning. The clocks too she throws in this black bag.

What a strange fabric this bag is made of. When she has tucked the night away, she hangs it from the weathervane on the roof. And she empties her heart, that railroad of emerald iron, into all that space. What a grinding she holds onto. This makes my mother tired. This makes her bones into pyres of hymnals, reaching upward. Never resting. My mother has pushed so much of herself into the night’s rusty harmonica that sometimes she can only sing the same dust-covered note.

And right now, she is sleeping. A white deer of a dream is moving through her. It is quiet. There is a field. A windowsill. A hat with twenty-four white roses. Her breaths are such soft, blind birds. It is quiet. She is quiet. And that quiet cuts that black bag of hers wide open. And the stars, the echo, the moon—she lets the whole night be. And the night, that strange cloth, does the same thing for her.





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