Helen Lehndorf

Inside Out

Nappies flapping, neat red pegs,
soldier birds steadfast on a high wire

wind cruel, demanding, and at the door
a bang. Hard, fast thumping

your heart echoes the sound. You
can only think in terms of intruders

check shadows on the porch, the baby
cries, you are fast unravelling, clutch

the handle, yank the door open to
the day. Outside, the man you

married, dripping, with a bloodied fish
he caught before the storm shooed him

home, which might not seem unusual
except today – where even the clock's tick

is irregular.





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