An Economy of Letters


After the phone call my heart turned to blackened honeycomb.
With every sore beat it rained Chernobyl snow down on soft unprepared insides.

Breathe became a baby.
Struggling for enough air to scream out the indignity of helplessness.

Loss. Fuck.
F o u r letters,
brutally succinct.

It’s the shock.
Drink dark tea. Three sugars.
Let the steely sweet coat my tongue.

Limbs curl small,
jammed between my stove and a wall.
A face tilted towards the enduring sky,
too relentless for my eyes to assault.

It chastens.
I become still and mute.
The economy of those letters,
just a small part of the fullness of life.



* Kerry Hudson writes short stories and poems. She is currently working on her first novel in East London in a pile of books and shoes called home.