Issue One

Autumn 2011


Breech


The phone burrs in the bedroom
barely there above the clatter of bins

the throaty caw of pied whites
nursing their squab in our chimney.

I press the handset to my ear.
An eggshell frost on the skylight

mutes the morning’s rash of blue
and seeps inside the sill.

I bury my head in your chest.
You ask and I tell in ruptured words

reluctant to give the news breath.
In the kitchen our son eats Frosties

pulls on muddied school shoes
his new coat, and calls out, I’m ready.


_____________________


Angelina Ayers