zafusy

The inside of rain is quietude, unwashing. Not the ring
of a neighbour’s phone, not the dishes, nor the laundry
left to spin and spin again. Clothes pegs not the answer.
Can’t hold it together. Can’t keep outside in. Extractor

fans are humming, turning air into air. No hint of soft
to smear the mirror, turn me cloudy-seeming. Cirrus-
faced to face the day. Another one come. Don’t hold
a hand out to the droplets – acid, drowning – or an upturned

self. You can’t umbrella when the sky is falling, only swallow
blue then blue. Nothing to it, this sluice of skin in lonely
seasons. You’d laugh if you knew how many times I’d made
that wish on the city star. Can’t hold a candle. Not to being held.

Sophie Mayer

View all poems by Sophie Mayer