pumpkin-cageBy Susan Jordan

You can’t run away. Nobody can go out of doors or pull curtains back from shut windows. Walls block all roads, guards turn lay-bys into instant prisons.

What can you do, shut in your tiny caravan? Wait for night, for moon-shadow, for fading day. Don’t wait too long. Soon you must think of crawling out into light, facing what you most shrink from: rats scuttling, arachnid limbs, sounds of pain from dark yards. Or do you flinch away from iron-shod kicks, a stinging lash?

Go now. Night falls, its black prongs gashing ground. Go out. Push through that last boundary.


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