It's July, it's an overcast, grey day.
The sable-haired woman standing, smoking,
at the kitchen sink
has disappeared.
They haven't pasted up
the missing posters yet:
She is iridescent & elusive;
she's untied her apron.
There's low cloud cover.
Her husband looks straight through her
as he helps himself to scrambled eggs;
(he thinks she's cleaning the bathroom,
again).
The children bicker back & forth,
brandishing jam-smeared knives
across the table;
they too, have forgotten she's there.
Icy water drips
into a bowl of milky dregs.
She's supposed to be washing dishes,
but she isn't & doesn't care.
The air is cleaning fluid & burnt toast:
a reference point,
like the lines on her palms
which read escape.
She exhales, watching cigarette smoke
drawn by an invisible current
drift through the bars & out the open window...
She imagines a future soundtrack of
swooping gulls, calls to mosque &
dancing electrical thunderstorms.
Without warning,
she has crossed the border.
Without warning,
she has peeled away the labels:
housekeeper/nurturer/mother/wife/cook;
she has peeled away all 'thou-shalt-nots';
removed every trace of their sticky residue
& vanished.
She feels no remorse. Hollow & light now,
she is a creature of myth:
A stranger in dark glasses &
a long silver raincoat,
a crescent moon birthmark
above elegant lips.
Her translucent fingers
push against the metal latch.
Movements fluid & sure
cast no shadow on the floor.
It's July, it's an overcast, grey day,
there's low cloud cover.
The air is cleaning fluid & burnt toast:
When the back door creaks open,
the cat slips in from the rain.
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