Two women
by Amber Haslam | January 18, 2021
are wearing high necked jumpers,
wrapped up to their chins
like coffee cup sleeves.
Their spines
taut trunks,
legs straight,
like those of the oak table;
nestled into its dents.
Beneath
all hands are hidden,
as if they both held weapons
between their narrow fingers,
barrels face to face.
Undisturbed by
the scream
of the ticking clock.
Skin cloaked in bark.
Cocooned within and
sealed
inside.
Talons
of a bird
on a branch,
gripping
the top of her arm with her hand
Looking away
from the eyes nailed
onto her figure,
pupils like
the slender,
pointed tip.
Parchment skin: battered,
pages
of the notebook.
Laid open,
spine cracked.
She knows
that it has been opened,
pages flicked through
and words
read.
Moss burrowed
into every crease,
blanketing
each nail
scraping
back bark:
skinned
until split
down the middle
and green
leaks into light.∎
Words by Amber Haslam. Art by Bee Eveleigh-Evans.