Sarah Jane Barnett

The Drop Distance

After we leave the cinema
I can still hear the hanging,

his breath sucking
the black cotton hood
audibly onto his lips.

During the storm that night
our ponga split,

the albumen flesh
caught on a power line.


When my parents went
through that bad patch

I made a community out of plastic
horses, a corral of bottle top fences,

a proud forest of milk carton trees.
At night I would play by torchlight.

Years later when studying Plato
I thought about shadows;

how we project them,
indistinguishable from the real thing.

Author’s Note


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