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Jo McInerney

The Boy

He kicks his feet through the grass. It's not fair. It's not his fault. Why is it always his fault?

From the house he can hear his mother's raised voice, talking to no one but herself. Scolding him in his absence. When later he goes back inside, slinks past her as she moves noisily about the kitchen – clattering pots and dropping plates – she will still be ranting.

The script of her anger never changes.

millipedes scurry
from an upturned stone
cloud debris