Out of Place

I lie back, arch my throat,
pretend to relax.  Contemplate

ceiling tiles, and women
who do this weekly

for pleasure.  A basin
strangles me. The palm

of a hand realigns my head: this
is how the ironing board feels

when you dance with it.
I agree to a full fringe

because I can’t identify
the part of the question

I don’t understand. Christmas
seems to come round faster
 
each year.  My small talk
shrinks.  I spray

DON’T SPEAK TO ME
across my reflection.

I’d like to foreclose, cut
the blow dry, but am helpless

as a mermaid; surrender
to hot brush and serum.

Release lifts my hair
like the tail of a kite. I run

all the way home.

Claire Lynn was shortlisted for the Forward Prize for Best Single Poem in 2025.  She won the Tyne and Wear Metro Poetry Prize in 2023, and has been published in magazines such as Butcher’s Dog, Pennine Platform and Alchemy Spoon.