This is what happens when she sits alone in her dining room, eating smoked trout and canned sardines.

A Tuesday morning in November
out on the street taking in the bins.
As a flight of crows flashed past
the street lights went out.

Noises are louder now: the kesh
of tyres on tarmac slicked
with leaves. Rain’s drumming thunder.

When you’ve used one handle to open the door,
use the other handle to close it.

She hadn’t lost a child but if she had she imagined it would be like that.

Let fathers bind their sons
to altars, so the wind
might winnow the chaff.

Sarsaparilla Road
travels through swamps
and reeds, over a black
water creek and a narrow bridge