Some Seam Shared
So she's slumped over sobbing,
great heaves of regret
falling onto orange nylon,
and there's a baby murmuring
and the still-hot-hard brittle sound
of footsteps, hollow ricochet going down,
down and away, away keep going, away.
The sky is not slag and not slate,
but some seam shared,
and she hears the kettle sigh, cry, scream -
but stays still, sits,
until the windows seep and blink
and try to show something more
than what's outside's outside
or the faded lines of dancing men,
and she thinks of the Joneses above
and the peeling crysanthemums,
the runty landlord all smiles and stains
and keep the fucking noise downs and
dya hear me?
The air is a shock;
past the estate and the factory mass
are fields and fat hills;
it's a long way there and a long way down.
The child in her arms is her flesh and blood
and she holds him tight,
remembers a song from the wireless
they played this morning.
She thinks there was sun
and if she closes her eyes, a light forms
and she hears the song louder,
sees the sun and the rush of light
and music and light and skin warming,
beams catching rising dust over his shoulder,
the stubble of his chin -
and she remembers her feet moving
and a sound like a voice singing
that might be hers or someone else's -
singing the song on the wireless now.
A long way there and a long way down.
She remembers the sun on her face,
a song playing
and her bare feet in the carpet,