Today she feels the wet coil of her brain, synapses
frazzled to smokey violets. White volts. She twists her body
to the window, taps the purled rain, every hair bristling

the scoop of her neck. A panic attack on the bus.
Her old wool gloves have acquired
an entirely new shape, reminiscent of dead birds.

The bus hisses to a halt. She can smell already
a wreck of overstuffed ashtrays, clothes,
curled magazines. Dirty dishes left by the bed.

Here, the moon won’t go home in the morning,
swings it’s white eye to the pavement where a bag
keeps rolling about, small as a smacked gull.

Her phone trembles in her fist, brings her back
as she lifts the brass key, calls “Mam.”


1 Comment

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One response to “Homecoming

  1. Tense and breathless, I can really feel this. šŸ™‚

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