Sunday Afternoon and White

by Amy Ekins

Sunday afternoon


I lie beneath the open sky, cloudless –

it, not I – and run my fingers across the paving slabs


I’m at the front of the flats, and this is not my area;

rather, it is the shared space in front of the cars


they are lined, neatly watching me, casting shadows from their bulk

and pinpoints of light from their reflections


I hope those pinpoints will not burn me, will not set me alight

in a case of suspected spontaneous combustion


speaking of, from here the trains are audible, both the narrow ones

confined to the region, and the throbbing ones which pass without pause


I’m unsure how a train’s engine works now, but if I lie still enough

I can feel their vibrations come up through the ground


I imagine their strength increasing, leaving my pinpoint-burning

limbs quaking, in a Biblical-sized act of death






I find pleasure in cleanliness, in the clean spaces and places

I find and create within and without myself.


It is a bright white bar of soap, run across my body in quick succession –

three times.


It is a tumble-dryer sheet, fresh from the packet, placed on top

of newly-bought bedding.


It is the satisfaction in knowing that every thought is monitored, noted

down in a blue-lined notepad, so as not to go astray.


It is the culmination of spotless cutlery, and hairless limbs,

and a hope that ninety degree angles will set my world right.




Amy Ekins is a writer of fiction and non-fiction, a project manager for a publishing company, and is finishing up her MRes in Creative Writing, for which she was awarded a fee-waiver scholarship from Northumbria University. She is passionate about communities, public art, and her Kindle. She tweets at @AmyEWrites.


photo by Kristi Harms



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