Mirror memory

She could've been a hooker once.

Waiting for the night bus, Molly notices a girl searching the street for another pair of paying eyes or that car that slows down for her legs alone. It reminds Molly of that night in a club, her barely out of school, when a guy led her to the toilets. Only when he unzipped his trousers and handed her a twenty did she realize what he thought she was. With a quick knee, she floored him and ran out of the club, the money snug in her bra.

But now, in the middle of the night, Molly thinks how easy it could be to go back there - the suit with his long look, the chav who pushed his cock hard into her back. Which one would've slipped her a bit of cash for her bit? The amount of of times she gave it for free, she'd be worth millions.

The girl looks up to catch Molly staring just as a car stops and distracts them both. Sleezy R&B pumps out to accompany gold teeth and a row of rings as they lean out the window. The girl leans in to giggle & primp and Molly watches money exchange hands, the girl's skirt hiking to her pantyline as her long legs settle in the front seat.

A bus pulls in behind, honks for it's red boxed space and the car speeds away. With it goes Molly's imagined life as she pays her fare and settles in the back. Looking around she picks out her potential marks, her johns and knows she'd rather just doze her way home to her husband.

Photo by Sarah Taylor; Story by Heather Taylor

Thoughts

Briefcase in his hand,
he remembers days outside
kicking backyard balls

Wheels spin into space,
he thinks about his future -
collars choking him

Photo by Sarah Taylor; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Barbwire

Ribbons cut the sky like birthday decorations
and make a present of the atmosphere.

Lying on our backs we could be in Palastine,
Iraq or my uncle's mid-prairie farm.

Those spikes are good for keeping out, sliding under
to play commando, though some places it's for real

those enemies not merely trees in the distance
but blurred shapes with night vision googles

our stick guns real in someone's hands,
their memories of childhood fading.

I like to pretend barbwire is only for cows
electric fences giving them a psychology lesson.

How can you sleep if you think it's for children,
women with scarfs covering their faces,

dreaming of sky that goes clear to the stars
unwrapped of those reminders of war.

Photo by Becky Taylor; Poetry by Heather Taylor