He sleeps, I slip out

into the world, the birds,

Mozart on ice—I glide.

I wonder if he’ll remember—

wash the sheets. And if I can

swiftly disappear


without a trace, no

eggs, no coffee.

Not another word

of this—The clothes

laid around,

a game, we told you—

the door creeks and he


mumbles something

in his sleep,    


“No, Mrs Dalloway,

I’m not taking you

to the moon.”


“That’s ok, darling.”


The ice


JILL TALBOT attended Simon Fraser University for psychology before pursing her passion for writing. Jill has appeared in Geist, Rattle, Poetry Is Dead, The Puritan, Matrix, subTerrain, The Tishman Review, and is forthcoming in PRISM and The Cardiff Review. Jill won the PRISM Grouse Grind Lit Prize and 3rd place for the Geist Short Long-Distance Contest. She was shortlisted for the Matrix Lit POP Award for fiction and the Malahat Far Horizons Award for poetry. Jill lives on Gabriola Island, BC.