‘Honeymoon’ by Josephine Corcoran

  I wouldn’t call it a honeymoon, those muffled nights in mothballed rooms. With cake in the boot we pilgrimmed north, taking a young marriage to old widows, my father’s brothers dead, their crucifixes still hanging. In each house we were given the double bed, my aunties inviting us to fornicate on concave mattresses containing dead men’s seed. Had we come one week before, you … Continue reading ‘Honeymoon’ by Josephine Corcoran