After mass, a hasty genuflect,
we went straight to the pub.
The adults absolved of sin,
straight into debauchery.

Clutching my rockshandy and chips
I huddled under the table,
grease shiny on my fingers.

Peat smoke.
A fiddle in the corner.

Home

Later, we piled into the car.
Frost on the road.
Narrow and winding.

The car slips, 
a figure skater, 
pirouetting.
Turning.
Turning again

Tumble, tumble, tumble,
head over heels

crayons and teddys in a jumble.

Stillness.

Jagged windows
An arm.
A leg.

Home.

Sarah Senft is a writer from Cork, Ireland, now living in Vancouver. Her work has appeared in The Closed Eye Open, 50-Word Stories, Bending Genres, Ivo Review, The Piker Press, Wingless Dreamer, and Prosetrics with forthcoming work in Wordrunner, Halfway down the Stairs, Fish Girl Collective, Excision, The Martello Journal and Interrobang Lit.