homecoming
we’re back here
where we started,
a pair of salty whelks
born by the sea.
the beach is vast and quiet.
we talk about our escape,
about how we dreamed of drifting
and washing up like debris, someplace new.
we wanted to hide from mismatched lights
lining the water’s edge,
where dark waves catch the colours
and sink them.
indoors, we’re curious of the outside,
watch from our shells
through parted blinds, as
gulls swoop under streetlights,
and notice the houses opposite
more than before, their
bricks tearing through render
like pink skin from a scab.
my mother cuts open a pie
and we eat it from our knees
on the carpet. the news is on
but we’ve stopped listening.
we lie in a bed too small for
the both of us, window open so we
can hear the rush of the tide.
we hold our bodies close —
wonder how long we will be home for.
wonder how we ever left.
By Bethany Barker (L1)