The night of the car crash
(the one I foretold in a dream
with cat claws and snow)
we knelt on a wide window ledge
watching black air, as stars fell
perfectly arced to burn out
amongst the barley.
The house was old and weary,
hidden mirrors and dark dark oak,
left here, a relic for us to haunt.

We were not half a family,
though perhaps a little crooked
with only one adult to balance
all of us against; scales
tipped unfairly in our favour.
Sobbing came walking through walls,
wondering amongst our dreams.
My sister swallowed only air
becoming part of the pale cold.
My brother’s blond hair darkened.

At thirteen I wilted in company,
slipped free of the clutch of family friends
to sit in a tree (height equalled safety),
or by the stagnant pool where
dragonflies bred and silence
swam in circular motions.
The light lay horizontal and thin,
over the northern lands.
My mother described me as a ghost.
I took the word and held it like a gift.

Sophia Argyris