Even in the heat of Summer she is swaddled in layers of clothing, wrapped shut in sleeves and smocks and cardigans, growing ever-smaller within them as time drifts on.
Lazy in her living room, Sunday afternoon stories drifting over me like soup-spill, I wonder what I have often wondered: if her arms are kept covered to hide the tattoo that must be there, the one that we don’t talk about.
Elephant In The Parlour,