Issue #4  



Page 1 of 2

Rachel Green

How
sweet
that books
come by post
slapping on the mat
with a seductive 'read me' thump.

 

The
gun
smells of
fresh cordite;
still warm to the touch.
We hide it among the pansies.

 

In
time
she finds
another
way to play the game -
pinholes through his secret condoms.

 

I
walked
too far,
to the edge
of my sanity
and found the border dismantled.

 

I
felt
the sun
on eyelids
that had long been closed
and skin still brittle from winter.

 

My
mind
plays tricks;
wipes away
my thought processes,
etching images of lost friends.

 

The
sound
of birds
on the roof
brings me out of sleep,
their shadows on the bedroom wall.

 

The
scent
of dark
before dawn;
I saw a figure
in the flare of  sulphur matches.

 

She
waves
at them
as they pass,
unaware of her
mental battle and her shotgun.

 

In
the
cellar
a lone voice
is softly weeping --
mounds of coal over her dead father.

 

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