Thursday, 23 February 2017

A poem by Jennie Owen

Pastoral care


Your voice is cramped and tinny at the end
of the line. Is it you that crackles
or the bad connection? I do not know.
I do not know you. But I see the bitten
peach of your face, the juice staining
the down on your cheeks. 

You tell me how
the neighbours steal your fruit for drugs;
that you’re bugged, a microchip
in every last grape as they fuzz and jelly
in the bowl. You do not know what you
will do. I do not know what you will do.

You’re afraid to unbolt the door,
to allow anyone in. To let anything out.
When I disconnect, I still do not know you,
but your sighs in the darkness
are like family playing to a different chord.









Jennie Owen is a teacher of creative writing and has been widely published in anthologies and magazines. She lives with her husband and their three children in Lancashire.

1 comment:

  1. Wow! Held my breath till the end. That means I like it a lot. Thanks for sharing.

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