‘Unsex me here’ I am incubating these words in a greenhouse. I am naked and deadheaded and in charge of this propagation. I plant them so deep, the soil quakes – this is the birth of a volcano, and the collapse of one. You, boy, can watch if you like but you will stay outside. You […]
Untitled I will hold you like this – a glass cradling milk within it. Aware that we are both liquid, both weeping for the thing we once were.
Ish I lied when I said the blood on your boxers was from a shaving cut on my thigh. It was an instinctual reply. The fox in the bush beside us could smell it but she knew to keep still and quiet. One day we will have our glory and we will no longer […]
Birdman You are robin-breasted – the outstretched wing of a full house beats my flush. Victory sits on your cheeks like a fat baby. I shuffle the cards and deal, uninterested in the game or the anecdote of your last date – she had a nose like a macaw, no, a fucking flamingo but that’s […]
I know you now as 90 (draft) I know you first as the woman who looked just like Grandma, second as the lucky-nosed coin. I used to collect fifty pences trace their hexagonal brink – never quite brave enough to hold my breath and make a wish, though. I’m turning 25 this year. I […]
Spine I asked my spine how it keeps me up on days like today when darkness curdles around my shoulders and begins unfurling a cloak of dumbbells and tar, letting gravity coax us to the concrete, atom by atom. Spine says nothing (it never does), re-aligns its stacking, and holds me through.
Touch If a fallen tree protrudes a single branch from a lake like an outstretched hand, but no-one is around to pull him to his feet, will the lightning still see him as the tallest and chop the sky into zig zags to reach down and touch him?
Ironing Board I keep this memory in a drawer – the water creases of your sleeves still smelt of Sheffield, puckering in this borrowed bed, the heavy stitching of my skirt pooling around our ankles. After, you counted the fresh grooves and you slept on the ironing board to straighten yourself out.
Flaws All black everything, my tattoos out are out, and my brow is stern. Electric blue split ends, an angry man shouting over twelve stringed guitars, and I’m drinking Fentimans rose lemonade I bought from Waitrose. Fucking Fentimans.
The Garden Slope (After Owen Sheers) I look through the window at her and try to understand why she exists at all. A rug for the willow roots, my once oblivion ledge, the stress of her seems petulant now. This stubbled kneecap, dark, unresponsive, uncertain of my weight. Her stretch, boyish and patchy, […]