A young woman wonders
how morning droplets on gossamer
can hang so delicately,
so totally out of place,
where no flower patterned gardens
blossom among numerous gloss, wood doors
with sad and peeling flakes of
RED: a woman's period,
YELLOW: pus in a wound,
BLUE: faded denim on a line.
Pushing a pram
past 'The Siren' pub,
the young woman
glares at her baby
crying into damp lace.
Silver spokes whirl
past the fish and chip shop
toward the unused underpass
where people piss.
Life moves on
like the wheels
across the main road
to the next grey estate.
GREY: a bridal dress in a charity shop
GREY: this path the young woman trudges
into a featureless future
woven through patches of dull grass
and birdless trees.
GREY: thoughts of her mother's discarded words,
lost youth, prospects buried
under soiled nappies,
empty lager cans
in an unemployment-fragmented romance.
Like badly fermented apples,
love sours to undeserved resentment
of her husband's salt rebuff of speech.
A brogue which worsens their disputes
through dropped aitches
'who do yer t(h)ink yer are?'
a question she can't answer
her self-image slithers,
snake like as original sin,
or her husband's
sliding atheist's appeal
to 'Sweet Jesus, Mary and the Mother of God.' |
Submission Name: Snake Like
