Wednesday, November 28, 2007


I catch a glimpse of the punching bag from number 48. Standing for the first time on the freedom side of the fence. Her small feminine hands wring tension all the way up to her troubled shoulders; broad as my father. I had never seen her ‘til this moment, only ever heard her pleading in time to the beat of her husband’s fists.

I hope that today is the day a taxi takes her away. Soon I will leave this street, and the woman from number 48 … her pain no more than a memory of mine – even though the madness of her every day will continue thump after thump.

walking on eggshells
every silent crack
an alarm

by Julie Beveridge
Brisbane, Queensland, Australia
first published in Home is where the Heartache is, 2007

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