Anya

Anya took the rusted ute into town.

Sometimes, weatherboard walls were as mute

As the silent orchard at dusk.

She’d drag the iron’s weight, the flexed snake of its stunted cord,

Tugging back her fine boned hand;

Its contained heat pressing years of sweat from the collars

Of a husband rarely home.


Even their dream of a new brick house, at the orchard’s edge,

Seemed a more solid prison for that delicate almond scent

As she untied the checkered apron,

Rolled on her stockings of honeymoon silk,

Slithered into the daring black dress, shook free her hair

And planted the accelerator on the pivot of a stiletto.


(c)Deb Matthews - Zott