THE MAN WHO BROUGHT ME HERE. HE SAID HE WOULD BRING WATER. MORE WATER. THE MAN WHO BROUGHT ME HERE. HE SAID HE LIKED MY FACE, ASKED ME WHAT MY NAME WAS. THE MAN WHO BROUGHT ME HERE. HE SAID HE WOULD BRING WATER. MORE WATER. HE SAID HE LIKED ME, LIKED MY FACE. HE SAID HE WOULD COME BACK. HE WOULDN’T LEAVE UNTIL I TOLD HIM A JOKE. HE SAID: TELL ME A JOKE. SO I TOLD HIM MY PIRATE JOKE AND HE DIDN’T LAUGH. NO ONE EVER LAUGHS AT MY PIRATE JOKE. I MADE IT UP WHEN I WAS FIVE YEARS OLD AND NO ONE EVER LAUGHS BUT IT’S THE ONLY ONE I KNOW. HE DIDN’T LAUGH AND THEN HE POINTED AT THE LIGHTHOUSE. HE SAID: DON’T GO IN THAT LIGHTHOUSE. I ASKED HIM WHY AND HE TOLD ME MY PIRATE JOKE. I LAUGHED AND HE SAID HE LIKED MY LAUGH. HE SAID THAT AND THEN HE GOT BACK IN HIS BOAT. SAID HE WOULD BRING WATER. FOOD AND WATER, BUT I HAVE NOT SEEN HIM. IT’S THE ONLY JOKE I KNOW. IT’S NOT EVEN A JOKE IT’S MORE A STORY ABOUT THIS PIRATE. BUT I WON’T TELL IT. NO ONE EVER LAUGHS AT MY PIRATE JOKE. I WON’T TELL. I’LL KEEP IT TO MYSELF. THOSE LIGHTS ACROSS THE WATER. THAT’S THE MAINLAND. THE PEOPLE SLEEPING. THAT LIGHT ACROSS THE WATER. IS IT MOVING? THE MAN WHO BROUGHT ME HERE. IS HE COMING? THE MAN WHO BROUGHT ME HERE. I LIKED HIS FACE. I ASKED HIM WHAT HIS NAME WAS. I ASKED HIM WHAT HIS NAME WAS AND HE SAID HE WOULD COME BACK. I ASKED HIM WHAT HIS NAME WAS. HE SAID HE'D BRING ME WATER. STARS AND SATELLITES. THEY'RE COMING CLOSER. THAT LIGHT ACROSS THE WATER. IT’S COMING CLOSER. HE SAID HE’D BRING ME WATER. IT COULD BE HIM. THIS COULD BE IT. IT COULD BE THEM.








































I hear voices. It could be them. Hushed voices from the lighthouse. I hear them now but there is no one. I climbed the iron staircase, wall smooth under my fingers. These charcoal numbers. Ones and zeros. All the way up. Zeros and ones. Last four steps missing. And at the top I found the lens. Green glass. Quiet. Hard. Convex. Alien. And at its heart the unburned candle. Good enough to eat, the thought of bees, chewing honey from the wax. He told me not to. No way to light it. This was a darkhouse. Its darkness spreading out across the sea, across the waves. Cool and unsympathetic, the endless gaze. Hushed voices from the darkhouse. I hear them now but there is no one. Who held the matches? Who gave the signal? The unburned candle. Who was here before me? Whose voice is it I hear, who was the keeper of the house? Lone lighthouse. The charcoal numbers. This is a darkhouse, its darkness spreading out across the waves, the speed of darkness. I am its keeper. The unlit matches inside our kitchen drawer. Dark ocean and a continent between us. Our kitchen in our house inside the forest. Woodland stream, floating fish beneath the glass floor, pine trees framed in windows so vast as to be invisible. Discreet technology. I left you sleeping. No sign. Dark ocean and a continent between us. Stars and satellites.