There's a Doll Thumping In My Chest

 

I spend a long time soothing her to sleep.

And sometimes I feel I’m running out of options.

 

When she cries,

and trust me she cries easily,

her whole body heaves.

And even when I’m calming her

there’s that long hiccupping of recovery

still stealing my air.

 

I don’t know if it’s the thought of people

knowing she’s inside me

that scares me most,

or that she’s going to beat her fists so hard

she breaks right through my ribcage

while they’re watching.

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And if the Soul is Connected to the Body

 

then I will grieve for the rest of my days.

 

Cry for its tethers

for the fact it did not choose me

did not float into this body to settle just a while.

 

I will weep that it cannot fly out at night.

 

If my soul cannot be mistaken for a bat

make a breeze that rocks a flower

pause for the eyes of an owl

 

I will howl for its dark future.

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Originally published by Black Bough.

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Under the Basin

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A cupboard,

painted lime green one summer,

with a clickable clasp

on the door 

and a dainty handle.

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From inside I could use my thumb,

push the ball in on that latch

release it slowly,

shut myself in 

with gentlest click.

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The day I found I no longer fitted 

beside the u-bend, in that space, I cried.

I had not known

this day would come.

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Published by Black Bough.

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Going to the Caves

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I am in a long queue for the cave tour. Stalagmites and stalactites are promised. I fear tightness, and more than that, being trapped. The guide tells us that we will see crystals the like of which we've never seen before. Then he warns us that there are times when it smells like multi-storey car park stairwells and sometimes all the torches fail. When I look at him, he reaches into his pocket. Here, he says, as if reading my mind, if you can't get out, take one of these. He offers me a circular, chalky-white tablet which I accept as he nods. It will kill you painlessly, almost instantly. I follow him, wondering if I will swallow the pill.

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Frogspawn

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The frogspawn in the pond

has stolen your reflection

placed it upside down in each jellied bubble.

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You pulse now in every black spotted sphere;

thick water daring you to the centre

of this paused life.

 

Vibrant green weed

invites you in,

ready to wrap you as you wade.

 

Your air is bubbles inside you.

 

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They Are Autumn

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And they look delicious

smoothed brown on the ground

with their snug little green hats.

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And I want to eat some

but I have forgotten their name

and I don’t know if you can.

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I give in to the temptation

to tread on some,

to feel them hold out

before my weight cracks them open.

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All I know is they fell from the tree above.

Its leaves are telling me it’s an oak,

and I know so much depends upon this tree,

but it takes me all day

to remember acorns.

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I Was Light In 1977

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so light I folded

in my cinema seat

to watch Star Wars.

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Tonight the seats seem smaller

I fear knocking the arm

of the stranger next to me.

I stiffen to sit

as if to narrow myself.

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Then he touches me.

 

Not an elbow nudge

Not the brush of knees;

this touch is in my nostrils.

 

It is damp bus aisles, 

the shiny patches on second-hand settees,

it is seaweed hanging from 

tide-abandoned rocks.

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I turn my face away to breathe.

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Tonight, I am heavy amongst strangers

wanting the scent of your warm neck.