BATTLEFAIRIES

The oyster loves the piece of grit with nacre kisses all around.

Near the noon hour one heron is standing vigil by the late snow.

Splanthony eyed the group of visitors that stood clumped together at the entrance of the exhibition, a space-busload of tourists eyeing the artefacts with sidelong glances or absent-mindedly poking their nasal smirps. He pushed his spectacles higher up his own probosciform and cleared his two throats. “We are now,” he said to the congregation, “in the Brokeoïd Vault. Each piece of our collection here at the Museum of Old Damaged Things that was broken on purpose, resides here.” There were some polite oohs and nods. One youngish gentleplirk raised a hand. “I heard Humans liked to split atoms. Are we going to see any split atoms?” “Split peas yes, split atoms no, I’m afraid,” Splanthony said with another nudging of the spectacles. He felt it made him look smart, and extra-curatorlike. “For lack of funding, you see – ‘old and damaged’ didn’t exactly fit the current administration’s campaign promises of ‘Back To The Olden Days But Not So Far Back As Last Time’. And the days when Humans