Home #Blue Nib Issues Issue 42 | July 2020 | Poetry by Penelope Layland

Poetry by Penelope Layland


How was it she had never noticed the manoeuvre by which

he switched and re-switched so it was always he, not she,

at risk of the arc of water, oil and grit played upward

from the passing tyre, to drench his trouser leg, again?

The sleight of hand as he handed her, handled her,

steered her by her elbow, like a surgeon manipulating

a remote machine, a flensing knife or similarly subtle

instrument of kind correction.

And her nylon...


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