Julia Stothard




Sick Leave

I tip the whole dark tray
night gave me into the trash
and tie the sack

having woken with a gutful
of aching uncertainty
and wishing a white sail for sickness.

I call for the sun. It comes
sliding its hands inside
the curtains – almost touching

then defining an island
on the blank wall. The others
are sleeping on

comfortably curled
inside the moon they came from.
They will get up hooded

flicking switches,
nudging the pivot
between night and day.

I track the lozenge of light
across the throat of a room
that has lost its voice.

Julia Stothard lives in Middlesex and works in Further Education as a database report writer. Her poetry appears from time to time in poetry magazines and webzines and her Twitter account is: @terzaverse

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