She now stares back

as I gently massage

with my ring finger,

a serum into the bags

of plum that

encircle my eyes.


I see her sadness

that she was not there

or is it my own,

at her lack of care,

her severed ties

the washing of hands?


I hear her voice

the haunting echoes

of disenchantment.

She found solace

on the washing line,

in jabbing pegs on silent arms

and compliant waistbands.

Stared into the blue,

the storm clouds rolling in,

a heron's feathers

a darkened sky.


She watched the clothes dance

under a malevolence.

Thunder in her cracked heart,

her hands picked at, like carrion

on the roadside of her despair.


Lorraine Carey
Lorraine Carey is an Irish poet and artist originally from Donegal now living in Co. Kerry. Her poetry has featured in the following : Picaroon, Atrium, Sixteen, The Honest Ulsterman, Vine Leaves, The Galway Review, Proletarian, Olentangy Review, The Blue Nib, Quail Bell, Live Encounters, ROPES, Launchpad and Poethead among others. Her debut poetry collection, From Doll House Windows is published by Revival Press.




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