Home by Pam Riley

Spring/Summer 2015



This afterbirth you call home –
rabbits gutted and
laying on the counter
where cups collect flies,
and the beds tossed
carelessly to the rocks below;
the track of mud
you wear to smile.
I am lost in your
graceless arms and hands;
I can feel them
ripping the doors
from hinges –
the kitchen pantry
where we placed the children
to be safe
and the dog chewed
right through the chain.
Surely you knew
it would come to this –
this leaving
late in the afternoon’s
eternal twist.
I formed goodbye
with a swollen kiss.


Pam Riley is a native New Yorker, who still misses the Big Apple. She likes to spend her free time going to the theatre, museums and traveling. She has been writing for years and enjoys working in both poetry and prose. The little quirks and imperfections of life are her inspiration.