Friday, 19 April 2013

'Unmade' by Allie Marini Batts

I can’t wash the sheets, make the bed, or even fluff the pillows: if I do, you’ll be gone forever. The soft, lightly sour smell of your unwashed hair, sweaty skin and morning breath is delicately stitched into the fabric of the bedclothes. One wash and you’ll disappear. I snuggle down next to the hollow left in the mattress by your absent back, big-spooned against me in the twilight; drink deep of your smell, pray it lingers. If I’d known you would not come home again, I would have short-sheeted you with my limbs and kissed you back to sleep.

1 comment:

  1. Oh gosh - a huge tragedy in a tiny space. Very well done.

    ReplyDelete

'The Invocation of Saint Florian' by Catherine Ogston

Before the flood we made our own sandbags. Filled old hessian sacks with sand until our hands became orange and our backs ached. Our patch o...