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,

whispers

“please”

 

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,

sailing.

 

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.

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