by Millie Light
I perch on the edge
of a broken wooden bench. Laundry
dances in the breeze
against a backdrop of Atlantic. Mists
are creeping ever nearer
until the ocean wears the same grey
as the clouds, until the fuchsias
look sullen. I scoop up
the linen basket, lower the line.
The hood of my jersey
whips about my face as I unpeg
hand washing, fold a headscarf,
a new bra, the soft prosthetic
that pins inside the left cup.