top of page

Piss stick

He flipped me the bird before

driving away

En route

To a rest stop

where I once gave another man


And it’s strange to see that car leave

with an empty backseat

where I reclined

On dirty afternoons


And the ocean

would sticky the navigation around handbrakes

causing a prison tug of seatbelts

Which I cut through

with a pocketknife one night

Because I hated his brother

And knew braking hard enough

Would bloody his back-seated nose

And of all the history and bitterness

There was still sweetness

in the fact

that I kissed his sister once

When she gave me money from his wallet

then performed amative touches

That he’ll never know

Just like this night now


And as the red lights press brakes furiously

in the distance from

my decision

I think of baby’s on


And seatbelts all


And know he’s not the father to any of this.

Because I took his last 5 quid

After all

By Amy-Jean Muller


bottom of page