Sister Moon
All day she watches. When I hang
out laundry, ceanothus branches
frame her cloud-cupped face. I peg
socks, shirts, pull down cotton
sleeves. She’s out of place in this
wind battered garden where bruises
play ring o’ roses at my throat.
Later I wash up, fill the bin,
onion skins and broken
crockery. Those plates can’t be replaced.
They came from Germany with a note:
Wir sind hocherfreut!
She peers through dirty panes,
pale face mirrored, avoids my gaze.
Perhaps she detects echoes, words
cruel as teeth, loose threads
running. There’s a tear in the fabric
and a button, hanging on.
I hide the whisky bottle. Futile.
He’s already drunk
it down to where anger lies, sleeping
tight against curved glass. She’s still
wide awake, turns the spotlight
on as keys violate the lock.
Looking up, I’m magnetized.
Alli Davies writes prose, poetry and script. She’s part-time Director for a fair trade jewellery business working with marginalised women in Nepal. Her work has been placed in competitions and published both on and offline, including Listen Up North, Everyday Poets, Slovo and the I Am Woman anthology.