Candy Tothill

XXThe Hiss Quarterly || Volume IV, Issue 3

ISSN 1556-245X

On Being Distracted

Nuances within the quiet irritate me—

like the letters on my keyboard
that are dying (i has slip-
ped aw a y; the tip
of s

ha

ngs o n; o is

gone).

I mainly write through closed eyes.

I don't need to look.
When no-one else is, I do. I do
because I can, because like air
that surrounds the vessel
I occupy, I’ll always be here—

and people don't appear
to notice it.

Air.

© Candy Tothill

The Other Woman

I remember her
type, the straight-
cut bob, the saddle
bags; the woman
with the clingy
voice. She’s grown
into a house
wife, the woman
with comfortable
shoes. Ironing’s
her religion; her
husband, her messiah.