have all been written down, but still
she has trouble working the TV. She calls
me up to say the device has turned itself off
again, and could I come over and turn it
back on? Just look at the notes Nana,
I say. I wrote the instructions down for you.
It’s a similar story with the microwave,
with its buttons seemingly designed to
perplex her. The internet is a true enigma.
I just don’t know how to manage, now
that he’s gone. The place is just so big,
so empty. And the bills, she says. Michael
used to sort the bills – now I don’t know
what to do. I try to assure her that all is OK,
all is in order, the electricity won’t run out,
the hot water won’t suddenly go cold.
I drift beneath a grammar of sharply etched shapes
and clear contrasts. Eddies dance as if to mock
my dumb back as I pass under a cove’s calm surface.
Sometimes a seabird’s shriek thuds through thick
water. I feel forever dark weight of water.
It’s as present to me as my own body as I push
through it with ridiculous flippers. One day I will
just stop and drop to ancient mud;
clouds of mud will mushroom out about me, swirl,
disappear on currents. I'll roll on one side
with one eye buried in muck and one still staring
at black water mottled with insinuations of light.
A sound will grow in me, rise out of my
mute years, build into a moaning like a sunken
ship’s crushed hull, then race into a scream smothered
Geranium blouse blossoms
under sodium glow.
Mascara smile masks
her feelings, her tears
transparent as rain.
Sidewalk puddles frown
as neon rainbows kiss
her stiletto shoes.
She paces the track,
marking the boundaries of
consent, on slender tanned
stems turning to watch
headlights beam like a
flower following the sun.
red thread the open wound
and from it the red rivulet
will drain into the metal dish
and curl into water
no more now
it is just a stitch
stitches
the wound gash drawn in and thread
dust of glass in the wound ground in
round the heel and spiral down into
blue glass pummelled beyond crystal
a useless moon dust
pounded to glass
the red thread
lets no light in
the shards are small
red on gold under gold the red thread will tie in the sequin
the dress will transform from the funerary gown of soft cloth
metal pearl mother-of-pearl the peacock sequins emphasise
the scar : where it was cradled in soft cloth it shifts with light
it now shifts with light
a battle armour with shiny metal frilling
a mail-coat
an armoured dress
the metal frill catches and disperses light from
embonpoint to point of candlelight it is no dust
no accretion of dust occurs in the music of fabric
flame does not show yellow in blue blue glass
sequin it : it hides the wound
sequin it: with the red thread
sequin it : the loosed skein
tack it in stitch on stitch and
Early summer occurs
in a calamity of falling
young
petals, birds, the
bright souls of birds.
A small dead bird
is at my feet,
tree looms
over this soul-ossuary
dignifying the small
body with her dark needles,
bird-map-lost
Obliterate—
A small mourning
shadow passes over grass,
just long enough to hide the living bird,
nothing special
an empty birdhouse beneath
an overcast sky
seaside motel
the only window
filled with fog
autumn clouds
the little tick before
each petal falls
one at a time
the yellow leaves drift
to the ground
bare winter sapling
the floor of the tiny birdhouse
falling out
without me
my shoes so still
on the floor