There was a moment today where the sun hit
the leaves of the tree by the upper field
and it shone dazzling copper
I stood in quiet awe
like I had found hidden treasure
or witnessed an unexpected birth
and the leaves glowed and smouldered
for a few seconds
as if small god had thrown handfuls of pennies
into the sky
Against the gilt backdrop
he walked all that way
and I could see the shape of him
cut against the gold and shimmer
the pace of his walk
as he came to find me
and to talk
Look at this, you said.
I saw a dozen grey torpedoes hung,
such monstrous baubles, in the depths
of the ocean, motionless
and unaltered by the heft
of water surrounding them.
Scattered indifferently,
their fleshy tonnes suspended
like great iron pendants, laid bare
to the perils of foe and flow
in a thalassic slumber.
We sat sipping tea in silent dread,
to think of such cryptic bed.
Nobody screamed
not even when blackness came
and small waves bounced upward,
obscuring the shoreline from sight:
biting at the sky
not even when their necks numbed
and boreal steel filled their pockets,
with weight like loss: the rush of
fear in a vacuum
Still, nobody screamed
instead, their throats made small alarms,
guttural from behind clamped jaws;
layers of yellowing silt shifting until
they all saw sky
instead, the march of steady breath
fell out of step with each arterial beat;
one by one they hissed like matches
softly dipped in water
It was you that taught me
to put newspaper between
the bottles so they don’t clink
when you put the bins out,
and how to read a map;
you’re handy like that –
a born navigator
I still get lost.
There’s a rolling boil deep
in my chest these days,
rumbling in my tight throat;
I let it out in slow sighs,
like bleeding a radiator,
and pick plaster off the walls
you built in the house
I still get lost.
Listen to the soft fricatives
of the leaves outside;
I think it’s autumn now, and
I still see you in the bath water,
and smell you in the sea –
I want to hear it over and over.
I wish you’d tell me
so I don’t get lost.
Yesterday, you said you had thought about me
and I didn’t ask why.
I didn’t ask if you had been imagining saving me
from an inferno – snatching me from the strong arms
of harm, so that you might not be forced to live
without me;
or if your thoughts were of craving me
in that orange dress you like – at a party where
people stare, and everyone wants what you have
for free.
I didn’t ask whether it had been first thing
in the morning – if my image slid into focus with
the slow light of day, and stayed in place like
a ghost;
or if it was the evening when cicadas croak
their song into the darkness – if you had it then
when we cannot help but think of what we want
the most.
No, I didn’t ask. I just wanted to hear it –
needed to know nothing more of overcoming obstacles
large or small –
it was enough for me
that you thought of me
at all.
The sun is garish
and always yelling –
a loud exhibitionist
a tactile party guest
drunk on their own stories –
it spills around the room
touching everything
behind my thin eyelids
with hot, glittering hands.
We prefer the dark –
the simmering violet void of night
that leaves the vulgar
roaring remnants of day
clinging to the edges –
a night that does not
force herself upon you,
but pulls you close.
You lean in –
her chasmic depths are moonless.
She had met David online when he, a mutual friend of an old colleague, had sent her a friend request. Following what had been a taxing, if not entirely tedious, day of processing innumerable forms, she had returned home to find the little figure in the top right corner of the home screen was coloured red, proffering a tiny speech bubble containing the single number ‘1’. It wasn’t the case that this alone had taken her by surprise, or had stirred any greatly anticipatory emotions within her. She was used to friend requests, from distant cousins, neighbours, and the like, though most often from middle-aged colleagues who, having recently discovered their own effervescent online presence, would proceed to forward video compilations of dogs falling into swimming pools, and grainy, garish reproductions of inspirational quotations from pulp fiction writers. But David was different: a stranger, a spark of promise amidst the quotidian hum of the everyday. She knew at once that she would accept the request, but humoured her shy sense of dignity by scanning his profile briefly, as if to vet the man at the other end of it, flicking through profile pictures and noting which school he had gone to, before sending her response.
After she had accepted, she fed her cat, folded some laundry, and completed the minutiae of the quiet evening, before getting ready for bed. That night, whilst brushing her teeth, she looked up at her face reflected in the small oval mirror that hung above the sink. She had never been considered a beauty, even in her youth, but she fancied that her face still retained something of the girl that came before the woman. She was grateful for her mother’s high cheekbones, which, even now, seemed to beat back against the inevitable pull of gravity, keeping her jawline from drooping – though her own aging had never truly disturbed her, as it had others.
I dreamed last night
of an empty room,
of absent colour,
swaddled tight
in pitch and gloom.
I woke in fright, in
spice-lined sheets,
the heat of night
having bled a cool
clarity from my mind – oh
I dreamed last night.
I saw darkness seep
into the lines, and
blur the light
and though I know
I have no right
I long to tell you why
I dreamed last night.
She had known men
and the language of them
She had heard all of their words
and felt them grip her beneath tables
Perhaps the way she smiled a lot
or touched her hair, or
even what she’d wear,
would bring it on
This is not a mating song.
When she was nine
a neighbour told her parents
that she’d soon be in her prime –
he winked and
they had laughed
In upper school she’d
doodled secret hearts
for boys that hung about in parks
in packs, ’til one called her
His Missus – for that
he’d taken more than kisses
Hot cola breath and
both hands on – that week,
a few diary entry misses
A decade after that
one had pushed her knees apart
in a bar, as she sat:
she’d said she wanted an early night –
she liked a lager
but had to get home to bed
and to feed her cat
Tell you what you need
instead of all that
he’d said
and then he told her
Now she was older
The sun of her youth had set
but still they’d come
and leave her wondering
what about her
made them feel so strong
This is not a love song.
Tonight she’ll find
some way to keep her back
from the wall –
her voice is gone and
this is not a song at all.
He had made her a CD. Initially, he thought about making a tape, providing a useful segue into discussions about old sound systems, a topic about which he knew a lot. He imagined how this vintage gesture might be charming, and give way to his being able to tell her things she might not already know, like how hi-fi is an actually an abbreviation of high fidelity, or how to tighten the belt inside a record player. He thought she might like that. She seemed to like learning.
He recalled, on more than one occasion, her having mentioned almost winning the pub quiz at her local, and she had seemed interested in telling him some of the answers she hadn’t known. Did you know that? She had asked. Sometimes he had, but he never let on.
ataraxicat 