Poem: Tree

The blistered shadow sprouts with crooked back –
a homeomorphic echo of songs pursuing
the rhythm of memory-dusted bone.
Trinkets packed away, so the smiles
and tears can be surrendered to time.

Slender fingers applaud the bladed currents;
exposed skin, painting faults against the sky –
cradling dormant frames of childhood,
with their trinkets and down; innocent whorls
Still.

In the last weeks of the year the birds return,
dark strokes of oil still finding their shape,
but bringing the songs back with them.

Poem: Inventory

We hollow out the attic; become a pair of sparrows

chasing a summer that pricks our tongues. Above, the

rain sells our secrets in whispers.

You move as though your ears can’t close.

 

Neat lines of cardboard meddahs spill tales from

folded tongues.  Exposed to time again their children tremble –

our fingers reach out, but it’s under your nails they hide.

Touching what you touch.

 

When the sun has moved beyond our estimations,

we eat sandwiches from the supermarket;

something not offered by your parents –

that feels important today.

 

The final bag is scrapbooks. You speak of

grass harbours, where you’d run until

your stomach ached and the air grew quiet.

Then you grow quiet,

As if that, too, is being reassessed.

 

We are given the spare room, where the sheets already

carry an imprint. I listen to your breathing, how it sounds

like those boxes and bags are too full.

Above my head the wallpaper is peeling. My fingers

feel false as I push the years

back into place.

 

I can’t do it like you can.

Poem: Sandpit

summer scratched knees,

grit and glass; stars press on green,

and raindrops of sweat in the sand.

a crater. a shallow hole.

with no ripple to its name

to slow nor speed up time,

if the desire were there.

 

the girl arranges quartz-crusted slugs

in size order, then

by personality.

the bully goes first – a plastic shovel

smears it across the wooden frame,

and the smell of cat shit fills the air.