8 Ways of seeing my grandmother’s eyes
Rabbit droppings
in a tin of azure paint.
Teal spots
over rusted coins.
A piece of the Indian Ocean
with floating debris.
Raisins soaked
in red wine.
Turquoise quilted fried eggs
with strawberry jam.
Burnt pancakes
with blood and blue syrup.
Blistered sapphire diamonds
swimming in egg white.
The River Thames continued
There is no place that shows light and dark
No place that rises so much when angered
Nor that sways to the wind
like a thousand burning leaves
No place that rises so much when angered
No place that epitomises greyness
like a thousand burning leaves
So dark yet so reflectively white
No place that epitomises greyness
Nor that sways to the wind
So dark yet so reflectively white
There is no place that shows light and dark
Nor that sways to the wind
Nor grins a million sooten smiles
There is no place that shows light and dark
Nor a mirror as tarred.
Invisible pebbles skid along the Thames
leaving a blackened trail of light
A pot of black ink being fanned
A thousand tiny mirrors smiling
leaving a blackened trail of light
Nor grins a million sooten smiles
A thousand tiny mirrors smiling
a large curved lady
leaving a blackened trail of light
There is no place that shows light and dark
a large curved lady
Invisible pebbles skid along the Thames
Sidestepping
You wiped away your tears,
sidestepping your feelings. What you said
about not wanting that to have happened.
That it hurt. It is like the time
I came home to find her crying,
because I went away,
you came to me,
tears forming under your nose, dewdrops digging a hole.
She said not to let you in,
wiped away her tears
and followed me to the kitchen where
you told me off, but it was only words.
I hang myself
And it happens this way
because I let it happen.
I let the sand in, crumbling at the seams,
allow it to fall on my head,
let the waves wash over my feet,
eat away at the sand,
because it lasts longer than the pressing of a button,
runs deeper than a flash
and burns brighter than one.
And I let it dissolve into the distance,
let the walls crumble like pie,
and just as it comes in like a wave,
it goes out like one.
It lasts as long as a match,
burns as brightly as a neon sign
that I wear around my neck
saying “yes I love him.”
And once the sand dissolves,
the love filters through the cracks on the wall,
taking the sand with it and the debris of what was.
I let it go
as quickly as I let it in
as it becomes as heavy as a millstone,
as long as a rope in which I hang myself later,
now an empty hole.
Cinderella
Like acid, he runs through my body
and like alcohol on a wound it burns,
relaxing me afterwards, as if I’ve just had sex.
My need for him is in my veins
strong as a magnolia,
delicate as a lily,
great as a bouquet.
I wait in my Volvo for two hours
until he comes
so that I can
cut myself and rub salt deep into the wound,
hold my breath and breathe in and in
clutching my arm as I watch him,
the closest thing to sex with him.
It burns, like my need for him
and the blood oozes like chocolate,
cascading onto my clothes.
I cut my arm up
like a comb
or as if it were a piece of clay
about to be fired.
But my skin is more like sliced ham,
or a dirty rag; peels like paint
or cotton fraying at the seams, where it most hurts.
Yet still my love for him is stronger than the pain.
I try again to cut,
to feel something other than the love.
About me
A hollow boiled egg
A blanched cloth
A sucked pecan shell
A flavourless crisp.
I know the feeling,
a deflated balloon,
a cracked cup.
I arrive at a funeral that’s almost finished,
or at a party not yet begun.
I look in the mirror,
at the tea stained bags under my eyes,
pupils mere dots under bushy brows, and wince.
I expect the feeling to move,
and so it does to my throat
then my stomach,
where it makes camp.
A balloon filled with honey
bicycle tyres filled with dough
a mashed banana
dried, crushed lillies.
Boxed up
You will come to me in my dreams,
as surely you must,
and you will be in a box,
a coloured one with ribbons
that I place beside the fire and open
to see you.
You will come to me,
as surely as the sun must come
and I will place you in the box
with tissue paper.
Falling Asleep
I am lying in bed, yawning
eyes held firmly closed like elevator doors,
and unable to sleep.
My eyes begin to water
and from the distance
it looks like I’m crying.
And I am scared
that I will not sleep
and that tomorrow will not come.
So I lie awake thinking
until the impossible happens
and I fall asleep.
Dinna
I try to picture
the stretchiness of her raw chicken skinned hands,
the tiny catterpillar sized fingers,
rivers bulging up through her skin
peach furry, smooth and soft.
I try to see cardboard boxed teeth
hair as curly as my mother’s
and eyes, raisins soaked in rum
but can only see the blue sky, blue film,
now over her eyes.
And when I dream about her
I stretch out to her and kiss her,
smell the Johnsons talcolm powder and Estee Lauder,
and cheap cherry boiled sweets on her breath
and see her standing battered Bible firmly tucked under her arm.
Loving Him
Loving Him
It was the tightness of his vanilla body,
the way his hair curled like dry leaves in autumn
and the way it sprang up like branches on a tree.
The sun would rise and set,
the moon bloom and dissolve
and still I have not heard from him.
And then of course it was his smile,
that would shatter any plastic,
especially the plastic encasing my heart.
The sun would rise and set,
the moon bloom and dissolve
and still I have not heard from him.
When he smiled the moon opened up,
my eyelashes stuck themselves to my brows,
the corners of lips to my cheek bones.
It was almost as if he knew what I was thinking,
that he knew I loved him,
which kept him away.
And then it made sense the way an apple does,
that he should keep away.
And then it didn’t.
The sun would rise and set,
the moon bloom and dissolve
and still I have not heard from him.
So one night I drunkenly walked to his house,
and then I saw him, as bright as a neon light,
as smooth as a compact disc, and everything made sense.
