I’m sixteen, home for the holidays, hovering
round Mum who pulls wet washing
from the drum, when an old lover of hers
tumbles out with the load like waters
breaking, the narrow utility room dimming
to confessional. Then coat hanger-hooked
out slips a back street clinic, followed by
Mum crouched on the loo in her cramped flat.
Last, a perfectly formed tiny boy falls
into the basket. I’m spinning. Among the rows
of jams and chutneys I become Kilner jar,
a rubber gasket round my lid.
first published in Magma, Issue 91, ‘In The Flesh’ 2025