Awkwardness

Conversation is sane, but in the silences
      Fruitcake changes hands.

The house flexes against lacteal trees,
Yellow windows lurching, lit boats
            Split by branches, the ancient
                  Thud
Of apples on mud.

Between the rooms the quips
Of cunts and conies rattle in glasses
            And black set rabbit runs,

The shrew in the gutter on tenterhooks –

‘No Satellite Signal’.


      Catherine Woodward

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