Annie Clarkson

breaktime

he takes me into the back of a wagon, a container he calls it, parked on the wasteland next to the mill. he says he wants me to hear the sounds inside, the echo of our voices, the clang clang.

here, he says, offering his hands for me to stand on. There's a rough-burn rope tied to a handle and I hoist myself up

metal box with its corrugated walls

no rolls of cloth or stuffing for mattresses or raw cotton, nothing but sheets of polythene we could lie down and roll in

close your eyes, he says putting his damp cotton hands over my face. now listen.

I hear nothing - no wagons outside, no shuttle bang looms, no shouts as the shift changes.

come closer, he says, wrapping his overall arms round my waist. he prickle kisses my neck and his mouth is the warm of a steam pipe.