On The Way Back
by Kathy McVey.
Light is boxed into the neighbour’s windows:
yellow squares in the night.
The moon cold-smacks her head like dirty fog.
The noises: her own feet crunching gravel, the wheelbarrow
chattering on the cattlestop.
At the end of the driveway she is putting out the rubbish
(recycling bin and two black plastic bags)
and she is loving it, resolving to love one thing she hates, every week.
Tonight, the beautiful night – such a dark delicious night –
is forcing her into being adept at garbage-duty,
at turning, at noticing her own house – its lights boxed now:
its chicken in the oven, its books, baby, fireplace.