For months afterwards,
if I held the door at a certain angle,
I could see you
in the tumble drier.

While it made a change from finding your face
in leaves and feathers,
I felt you watch me
work through the dirty linen
that marked your death.

I thought of how
we'd shared the same womb
and wondered if you'd left it clean
for my beginning
or if traces of you
could be found in me.

The spring came
and you had long left your glassy frame.
Instead, you came to me at night,
your thin artist's hands extended
and I reached out
in joy that you had found me

but looking down,
I saw the dirt thickened under your nails
and knew, then,
the sin was yours.

Awakened,
I searched the house for your hands
and found them hanging
in oils
which slid
too easily into the trash.

It is winter now,
and I long for lost images.

ANNE ROLLINS: I am a counselor/tutor living in Northern Ireland. My work has appeared in the UK magazine 'The Black Rose' and is due to be published in the book Poetry Now Celtic Connections 2002.

Have comments you'd like to send the author? Please e-mail ANNE ROLLINS at: arollinsuk@yahoo.co.uk or fill out the form below: