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Poetry

Kevin (6)

Hermione Roff

 

She
relentlessly pursues the
evidence against me,
although I am, in
every sense, just a
low-level traitor. My
Dad, he is on the
higher level, and
he is still at
large. No
injunction stops him. He
broke her ribs. Now he
trashes the car,
bangs on the door at
midnight,
roars his hate through the
letter box.

I have his
eyes. If only I could
wash the colour of
his eyes from out my eyes. If
only I could
cleanse my heart of
his heart. Cut out and
re-shape the
curve of my
lips. Lose the
male smell that is
me, the angle in my
bent neck that is
him. If

she could only
kiss that softness
there, that is
me, not him. When I

move close,
sidle up to
press unseen against her
knees, she
screams.

Hermione Roff