The Pastoral Confession
While at work, a woman talked to me;
her input stuck in my gut like a ball of dough.
I let myself go.
Go away work, let me go.
It was storming outside.
I thought of the beach.
Mum, on a towel, was baking like a peach.
The sun blazed. She looked fiery, like her skin was wrapped in orange tulle.
In real life, the wind knocked over a tree.
In my daydream,
the sun clamped onto me.
I went up to Mum.
The insistent, hot breeze veiled us with stinging sand.
I reached for her, I went to whisper in her ear,
but it came out as a hum,
and Mum wrapped her arms around me.