for cast

Drops settled on the grass,

Clinging, like the tears

On the downy

Baby hair upon my

Face, shining in the

Light, thrown out from

The kitchen; the heart

Of the home.

I stood beneath

The window sill,

Still but for the shaking

Of my hands picking

At the potted plants.

“You fucking cunt,”

You screamed, and a light

Flickered in the neighbours,

Those friendly strangers,

Pretending to keep themselves

To themselves.

“You fucking whore,

What are you good for?”

You asked that question,

And it hung around

Like a cloud threatening

Heavy, thundering rain;

Waiting to clear the

Air, to wash

Away the dirt,

The shame.


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