The Manchester Review
Alan Gillis
Two Poems
Poetry
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Home Road

As the dead moon opens its hinky eye,
bank towers give the heebie-jeebies
to the city: their glim shadows creep
across the suburbs, like banshees or zombies
with anchovy skin and pistachio eyes
in a child’s recurring dream, or like guilt
in the palling sky’s reminder of debt,
while you skulk on your thrawn home road,
put on your bright mask, before you alight
on the fugged clump of your estate
to crump through crescents of drawn blinds
and hooded glints, returning to your dark
hall, closed bedroom doors, your frightened
child’s murmurs in the pale terraced night.