an old woman’s face with a schoolgirl’s smile,
your words on the page
as long as your garden glows
yellow and green outside your window
between buildings, lives.
glass chokes the voice on the other side.
thin white hands
ashen dress tight to the neck
collar pinned to skin,
your papers shuffled out of view,
knees held together;
a gaze breathless in the
dark eyes grip the sky
and secrets that no one wants to know.
the tick of your grandfather’s clock
your black-and-white tv
and the voices in your head bark
a whirlpool of meaningless sound;
people in glass houses
animals under cover of night
lips sewn together by the railroad
for a paycheck;
spinning voices for the people,
the stupid quiet people.
your brother in a warehouse
stealing chickens with broken feet,
newborn chicks ground into air
while your mother sleeps in silken pyjamas,
and you linger, barefoot,
on the dirt floor of your home.
Lisa Reily is a former literacy consultant, dance director and teacher from Australia. Her poetry has been published in several journals, such as Amaryllis, London Grip, Panoplyzine, Magma Poetry and Sentinel Literary Quarterly magazine. You can find out more about Lisa at lisareily.wordpress.com
Banner Image by Robert Frede Kenter Tweets: @frede_kenter