Lindsey Holland



The Orphanage


And years later there came a night when, balancing on a red sofa in a red room,

he either fell in a clonazepam splatter to the (red) carpet or climbed the arms,

back, and escaped through the high cellar window out of which he could

sometimes see shoes.


And he realised how much the shoes meant. Like butterflies.


But first he cut a hole in his jacket, through to the pocket so the lens of his phone

peeked perfectly. And he practiced for weeks – standing, sitting, walking,

crouched – until he could net each pair without a twitch.


This is the shadow you ignored on the train last Tuesday, the blur you passed

at that gig in the park. He saw you.


And now your feet are pinned to the red wall along with a hundred other

neglected brevities. And your head still floats in its constant gas of keywords

like a losing balloon.



Lindsey Holland‘s poetry has appeared in a wide range of publications. She’s the chair of North West Poets  and she’s addicted to poetry projects. Her collection, Particle Soup, is about to be published by The Knives Forks and Spoons Press.

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