I search the blue
dawn for her fire.

She scents of smoke
and burnt matches.

I steer her back to the house.

My stepfather will wake soon,
demand bread and tea,

snatch her by the hair, rattle
until the lights turn on.

Sometimes, I want to push her
towards the open gate,

watch as she crosses the slip
of road right into the side

of a speeding pick-up truck,
heavy with bananas.

There would be no more sound,
the hitting and the wailing,

her insults when I take the box
of matches from her hand.

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Image caption: “Roommates” by Ilya Shkipin is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0