Poem – Jenny Bornholdt



Last days of December
broccoli squeaking
on the stove
and your hair – it’s
a tidal wave crashing forwards
as you bend
to open the envelope
you sent from Fielding,
in 1971, to your father –
in it, your ponytail chopped, still
with the band on.
Thirteen years later, in the writing class,
Doreen with the short hair
was always getting off
her motorbike.
The year breaks down and down
into seconds scampering like ash
across the ground towards you.
The motorbike gunning
in the distance.


Jenny Bornholdt

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