• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 09


She leaves home alone again,
ignoring warnings, post-it notes,
nagging thoughts of something

half-forgotten, kaleidoscopic streets
that reinvent themselves in
blinked eyes. Again he’s reminded

of his worst infant terror:
her absence. He tracks her
ploughed furrows, labyrinths

that surround them, finds his own
reflection in her old haunts:
the bank, the chemist,

the bus station queues.
Just before he calls the police,
he spots it: her orange umbrella,

ribbed like a clamshell, bobbing at
the roadside. It isn't even raining.
She's stopped a passing car
and is leaning-in, talking
through a wound-down
window. The driver is drowning



in her own puzzled face,
and he sprints to save them both.
Sometimes a body has no shelter.