fightin talk

fightin’ talk

True Satanists are very rare you know.

States Family Liaison
her eyes fists and face pursed
like a letter chucked in disgust.
Patterns of wet late spring
in an early century
across her worryingly
perfect make-up. The cheap
extension on an old Saint
Andrew’s building creaks.
The stench of instant stomach
cramp coffee, sodden denim
and subtle feminine scents
thick as the greens outside.

For a moment I could snap
the crust of incredulity
with the woman from Women’s
Aid. Then they talk about me
as if I was a dying child. Yir nae
needing that quean.
She’d said.
It was dark outside, my back
hard against pretty blue
wallpaper. Back in my
nightie, my body too clean.
No words. No bairn
but a heavy empty
space in my arms.

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