The World of Under-Table by Lorraine Carey

He is shouting again

and I am under-table

peering out

between legs

to yours standing

in ruby plimsolls.


His keep moving, moving

to his shouting

plodding black

leather, mud caked

– laces greying, fraying.

Yours unmoving,




His stopping, smacking,

thumping, whacking.

Your feet flying.

Your body sailing,

slamming door.

Your blood-soaked face

sliding into view.


You crying

hands praying.

Blotted out.


By that.


Head looming, eyes looking,

grabbing legs.

You wailing.


It’s all wrong, it’s upside-down.


He drags me,

rights me.


I am flailing,



Based in Co Kerry, Lorraine M Carey mostly works on short fiction and her first novel. This is her first published poem. She tweets @MonaRaine and blogs here.

Inspired by

© 2023 Spontaneity. Copyright of contributions remains with the artist.