Burial

Poetry

 

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In the low tight soil

cramping out breath

sun watertight

stones as they landed

time ago

another tree grows.

 

The plane

so rampant

no doubt pressed against this clay

another leap to live

how it goes on

even when it’s over.

 

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Garlic

Poetry

The paragraph where I fall in love

is written, published, distributed

has sat all papery and lush on the shelves

for some years now – but has been read a loud

and sounded out so the words are

round like the moon and just as full

but reflected, now, like so much light.

 

It is the tang and spring of the garlic in our food

the surprising sweetness in the nip of it

papery and cloven the hooves of it across our floor

like so many feet in the night

searching out the warmth we make

for heat that shatters across the tastebuds

is grown on the good stuff

filled the mattress with its outer layers

falling off and falling.

 

I will write you poems on fault lines of

this fruiting body

I will drink your breath ’til dawn when you turn in your sleep

and face away from me

I will inscribe all the tiny events

into the curve of the skin

and peel it peel it

the paragraph when I fell in love

in minute letters all over again.

Like Air

Poetry

From here you can feel the cold breast of the sky

if nursing here the runnels of rain

have been sucked dry and any warm frames of light

succulent like honey barred beams

dried into powder themselves;

a day bees hate, with grey dissatisfaction

they fluff their buzzing bodies and frown down the wind.

 

But you, having nursed and found the fire’s warmth

in your bones you have no word for afraid

or refrain no other state than barefoot

even in the mud that licks you as you would lick the rain

and stick wet coldness

will fall off you

like air.

 

 

Daughter

Poetry, Uncategorized

 

For you, I iron my breath,

dust the flames from my shoes

grapple with my own fingers and their workings.

I go and finish sewing the apples back to the tree

blossoms to my lip

sprinkle flour on the floor of our kitchen

and dance,

dance until we all return.

For you I will tie down my tongue

loosen my eyes

avert my palms.

It will be my job to fade the tiredness in the sunlight,

my duty to bulb each lantern

and polish polish polish all those tears.

You must do your own breathing

wearing all my wrinkles down.

 

Nights

Poetry, Uncategorized

These nights come in

with a clap of cool storm’s drizzled breath

applause of rain

lamps that hold our shadows in;

finally the children sleep.

 

I comb the house

listen to the pipes whinny

cars shush the tarmac.

Crumbs stick to the soles of my feet

and scratch the floor like a catch in the throat.

 

He coughs.  It’s nothing. Coughs again.

And then the teeming

choking breath, the ‘I can’t talk, mum.’ husk

‘my mouth won’t breathe.’

I’m by him, rubber seals his mouth

and together we count four breaths.

Then four again

And it is over.

 

His child’s body splits mine open.

This boy who takes breath

and fills our house with it.

The pillow holds his head, now

touch him gently, sleep

 

The mo-poke owl

calls all the loneliness away

the house settles further to the ground.

Foil Cage

Uncategorized

childhood’s

foil cage

tremble-shimmers

so count these atoms

that make this table, this hand, this chocolate bird

that chatters and chatters

perched on the silver wrinkled bars.

Foil Cage

Chocolate bird that chatters and chatters