Mark
Punctuated by a sudden stillness? Surely not right? But the doctor, the doctor, The black-coated doctor Says it is true If you don’t Stop. Oh, we never thought it would come to this. Stranded in a wet desert. Can you stop? So insular. Will you open to me? Could I stand it? You made weak by the strength (not strength) Of your friends. Can you stop? Your hands not on the wheel, Not on yourself. Stillness The leafy stillness of Commonwood Rise Punctuated by your outer shell, Hard on the outside; Softness? Not you! Only I know I know what I know what I know And praying for you: God, please...
Read MoreFree Fallers
Here it is: Here it is inside my palm, Curling as you do against my side. Do you see it? Here it swells like the subtle curves I discover in your belly every morning. Here it stretches upwards Like a bird taking flight, like That breath-holding moment Before I let go of the cage and fall. Twisting through the air, tumbling, My eyes forced open by this wind That is not wind. And when the rope jerks me back again Like the hand of a capricious god, Sound floods back into the world – But the colours (a moment ago More bright and alive than ever before) Wash away as my breath falls back into my...
Read MoreSea Breeze
There is nothing more beautiful than the scent of a woman’s skin. I taste salt tang, sun-tan oil and ice-creams. The language of this sense is universal. Even the sand has an odour; cupping it in my hands, I bring the grains up to my nose, inhale. Their smell holds the secret smile of the sun. Each fresh breeze brings another scent to me: Lunch cooking on the grill; the heady blossoms (The name of which our guide could not remember); A miasma of individual perfumes From the Ann Summers Party to my right. (And behind me, a whiff of rancid sweat - The Englishman who never takes a...
Read MorePavement Poet
Trained to be a listener - I’m a glass funnel, an ear. I time all your stories, Distort them in private playback. I bounce your emotions Off concrete breezeblocks. You echo in the War Memorial. I twist things shamelessly: Quote you all hopelessly Estranged from context. I can only think of these words (“In more ways than one”). The heels of your stories Click along my macadam. It rains through my windows. Some are broken, Others are badly made. I’m a poor scribe, I know. I tarmac the inequalities. I can only learn To be faithful to the truth: Sappho of the paving...
Read MoreAunty
The surgeon’s signature of scar, The i.v. drip into your wrist Deny completely what you are. At home, my mother made a list Of things like books, nightgown and comb. We have to tell your children tales Of when their mummy’s coming home. I never saw you look so pale. Like a rotten tooth, the doctors said. Now you echo like an empty room. Is it like being clean, is it like being dead When the men of wisdom take away your womb? The only thing a woman ever has, you knew: You were never too young, you were never too old. They’ve taken away your birthright, and you The only one my mother...
Read MoreBeached
There is not enough time. Children Splash through water that they wish could be Eternal. Sandcastles rise and fall With devastating speed. Mothers Cling to their magazines as evidence of existence. I hate this place, now. People Swamp the sand, spread over the shingle, Snub the stones. The sea is terrified – Coming only so far as it must with each wave, Hating to push them backwards. Every sand grain glares. At five The tourists depart, leaving their imprints: Wrappers and coke cans, messages scratched With sticks. They are scrubbed clean By water and salt, a larger hand. I’m free to...
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