by MADELEINE BAZIL
The sun is setting later these days. I walk out to the
Quad at 5 o’clock and the sky glows kaleidoscopic blue;
it’s milky, dusty, as if through a lens, but the bells
at the chapel ring clear and true. Finally, I have room
in this landscape to be able to stretch my legs. In the
King James Library, I sit next to manuscripts older
than my native country. The silence shakes me by the
shoulders. Do you ever wonder why the hell you deserve
to be here walking on these ruins? Every cobblestone
on South Street is a gentle snowflake on my tongue;
there is a certain sort of magic swirling in the sediment at the
bottom of the wine I’m nursing at this dinner party.
I grasp the glass by the stem because I have learnt some
things. Chief amongst them: that I am bad at saying no to
things I want, but ought not to have. I graciously accept
a Dunhill and a light on the smoking terrace, but I refuse to
borrow a jacket. I roll my eyes mercilessly at bad conversation
but I fuck the guy anyway. I say ‘I’ too much and I reflect
too little. Perhaps at springtime, in the long evenings of Celtic
daylight, I will learn to take care of myself. Maybe sooner.
MADELEINE BAZIL was born and raised in Washington, D.C. She currently lives on the windy shores of the North Sea in Scotland, where she studies English Literature at University of St. Andrews. Her writing and art have been published previously in Thistle Magazine, ST.ART Magazine, Stereoscope Magazine, and Matador Network, amongst other publications.