The Girl at the Till
by Elizabeth Challinor
At odds with herself
And unable to contain the unease
She became a jug
Pouring herself out
With the hope
That that sickly nagging feeling
Would wash out with everything else
It remained
Lining her insides
Like the limescale in a kettle
So she kept on pouring
More and more
Until one day
She ran dry
And turned inwards
To face the crevices and cracks
Of her being
And then began to pour again
Inundating herself
With liquid light
She could feel it
Seeping into her bones
She could see it in the mirror
Her hair began to shine
Her eyes became smooth
She could feel it in the street
Her gait became light
As if wheels had replaced her feet
And the girl at the till
Commented upon her smile
