Baggage
Your careless mother
wounds –
my savage
father –
propels us
to grey clouds.
Off our heads –
Our damage spiralling above.
Our love a
magnetic field –
if I turn from you or you turn from me
either will be propelled by ions –
rendered specks of shiny dust that
I can blow from my hand
leaving it
empty.
Your back – to my face
gives rise to two tuxedoed men.
They take me
under each arm
lift me backwards through
warm air –
Your disappearing frame
ever smaller from
my distance.
Stella McHugh – Writer 