When I walked out

I didn’t make it very far. On the driveway, there was space

to come apart because no one was home when it happened.

The only cars were the ones that passed, the drive was as bare

as the cast-iron sky and both were beginning to blacken.

Collapsing means falling. Down, over, inwards. It also means

an abrupt loss of perceived value. I thought of all the sprawled

people who were made to feel small, like my mother when he left,

how it could take months to fold but seconds to fall.

I found her in the shower, unconscious. She had left her body

in her attempts to find him. That’s where I was going, I knew it.

When I fell, the trees and houses were geometric shapes

and I didn’t hit the ground, I tore through it.

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Published by The Poetry Business as part of Abbie's poetry pamphlet 'Threadbare' in June 2020. To find out more or to buy the book, see here.

First published in 2019 in issue 6 of Strix, a poetry and short fiction magazine based in Leeds.

strixleeds.com/strix-6