Louise Wrightson

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The Equator

Coming home on the bus
in winter the wipers arc

whootu whootu
whootu whootu

The passengers smell
like old potatoes.

I crack open the front door
abandon an umbrella
shake off the day.
White envelopes rest
on the table
like doves.
In a letter from an aunt
I have just invented
she writes that it is humid
where she lives on the line.

Colourful birds fly through
her rooms leaving
feathers behind.

My aunt stuffs them
inside pillows. She has been
sleeping well, lately.

The sound of the birds’ wings
(writes my educated aunt)
is a susurration

whootu whootu
whootu whootu

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