Time by Julie McNeill

Clapping our hands on quiet doorsteps,
leaving rainbows for the postie we make do
and mend; then send our friends to fight

an invisible foe. At home we grow our
children, our bellies, our forlorn DIY
and try to sort the truth from the Priti little lies.

The mother holds another man’s child
as if he were her own. Her pulse as loud
as silence, seconds slipping by, and by.