Baggage

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.

Published by Stella McHugh

Survivor of so many things that happens to women and girls.

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