by Laura Mills

We managed to fetch 
it before the birds
had pierced its silvery cap.

Nightdress-clad
on the doorstep.
Our mother still in bed. 

It only got as far as the hall, 
before the glass bottle slipped
my sister’s slight hands
grasping at air

Now, the cap relieved itself
(no birds or hands required)

A small pool
of white 
on the newly shampooed carpet.

When she rose, 
A gushing rush
of white
over my sister’s delicate head

white cold liquid
                               prompting,
white hot rage

That almost-full bottle raised
and drained
over small shocked shoulders,
onto the floor, 
the barely damp carpet now steeped, sodden.

Ruin

by Laura Mills

                                                                                                      Their arrival comes

                Out of

                                  the blue

                                                                                                              They are

                Out of  

                                                    their depth
                                                                                                                                                      It is

                Out of 

                                                  my hands

                                                                                                          We are

                Out of 

                                                    step

                                                                                              Are we so

                Out of
                                  touch

                                                                                           Or just

                Out of
                                        practice?

                                                                                                                       To re-live this life lies
                Out of
                                  grasp

                                                                                                  We are

                Out of 

                                                  ideas

                                                                                                                                       To reconcile now is

                Out of     

                                                  the question

We are               out of                      time. 
We are               out of         luck.

---

Laura Mills (she/her) is an academic in the University of St Andrews School of International Relations. Her creative work has received multiple awards, with her poetry appearing in publications such as Survive and Thrive and being featured as best practice in the Gregynog Ideas Lab. Originally from Northern Ireland, she now lives in Scotland.