Sisterhood
The moon sits half in, half out
of her button-hole, like a hastily-dressed
adulteress.
Tugging at tides, she’s a fierce
hypnotic force; her magnetism
controlling the cycles of blood, birth.
She has an aura about her, feeble
candle-glow, takes the chill off.
There’s a mackerel skin of sky. Half-
light casts itself forgivingly
on a chisel of cheekbone, shoulders
of lovers. She’s quietly complicit
in illicit rendezvous. Half-hides
her face from women who know
they should leave,
but don’t.
Turns her blind eye towards those
who dare to risk all for minutes,
twice weekly, with one they didn’t
marry.
Shines just enough light at the end
of a tunnel.
Turns a blind, a blind and sympathetic eye.
Driving home
Tonight the moon is full,
a gigantic orange
disc. Stuck on. I want to say
it’s flat, but science knows better.
I want to say the sky tonight
looks like a fuzzy felt picture.
I remember the texture
of fuzzy felt, the way it curled up
at the edges, the way
it rasped on teeth.
Frustration when,
lifted up to show, bits
dropped off. Never quite fuzzy enough.
Childish fingers awkward, lacking
dexterity; a child’s patience exasperated.
It’s not quite dark, so there are no stars.
To the west, in the rear-view mirror, shepherds
are delighted.
In these few seconds I become a child again;
small and insignificant.
That’s how quick thoughts are; a few seconds
and I realise where I fit in, or not.
C. 3. 3: Wilde.
The world was reduced to six inches of sky,
a slit though which you’d strain to see something.
A new distortion; his face haunted
a quickening stain of cloud.
A grassy bank and you are under him,
hard as tungsten against his mouth.
In the gloom you grew half-hard at the thought.
A treadmill sucked you dry, unrelenting.
Next day a noose of oakum unpicked your words,
ate your fingerprints; a temporary
loss of identity.
You saw the shape of him in textured bricks
above your head. The rhapsody of mutual
sin dampened, absolved by stagnant piss
in a pail. You could barely recall
the damasks and silks of Tangiers; fidgeted,
dry-boned on a flea-infested cot…
A packed house and he’s your leading lady.
Crackling in taffeta, he enjoys
the bustle. His face beams in arrogance
at his standing ovation. He takes
another bow, gloved fingers gesture
to his audience; theatre kisses
dissolve the air about him. Then, a rumbling
belly-deep and all eyes turn towards the wings
where you splutter conspicuously. Frothy
pink sputum fills your mouth, bowels open. Louder,
louder still, a deafening ringing
fills your head as heart, liver, lungs crawl up
the stricture of your throat, spurt from your mouth
like magma. Front-of-house splattered, awash
with the metallic tang of abattoir.
Essentially you lingered in the rafters overhead,
laughed afresh as yet another actress screeched falsetto:
A handbag! Vindicated because of your words.
The C word no one wants to say
It sneaks in by stealth, through the back door
lodges itself, uninvited, in your favourite chair.
While you’re busy chopping sticks for the fire
it nestles in your warmth, snuggles cosily
out of sight, taking for itself what does not belong.
A list of ASBO’s as long as your arm.
It’s done this before, you see, knows the ropes.
Sometimes it slips a latch with a credit card;
ferociously eats the contents of a fridge,
smears excrement across a three-piece-suite.
Wreaks havoc and grows. Unaware
of its presence, one day you glimpse
its unwelcome shadow from the corner of your eye.
You shoot down roots on the spot,
you offer it your Rolex to leave,
the contents of your wallet.
Still it grows. I ain’t going no fuckin’ where.
So, you adjust to your unwelcome guest,
it lifts up its feet while you vacuum the carpet;
sits around idly while you empty the bin
and scrub floors, watches Richard and Judy.
You give up the fags and start to shop
with it in mind; red wine, goji berries, green tea,
everything the colour of traffic lights.
You get hold of the law
to remove the good-for-nothing;
it will not budge. So, you hire some heavies
who’ll eject it with pleasure for a few quid,
but it’s a martial arts expert, uses its chi gung, makes
mincemeat of your meat-heads.
Still it grows. It’s obese now and you call the SAS
to get it out. One morning, by surprise, a smoke bomb
fills your lounge, two pairs of boots dangling from ropes
explode through your window. You brace yourself against
a wall and watch them do their stuff. A lobster
shriek, the fog lifts and on the floor
a smouldering balaclava quivers.
THEN THERE WAS ME
The moon hung dull as an old sixpence
on the night of broken promises,
like foreshadowing. It should have been
a clear night, but thunderclouds overhead
created a ceiling, low, we sweltered.
The sky threatened to break.
Mid June, a cactus of words had built up
mechanically all day, spike upon spike;
verbal compost. Through the night we made lists.
I shouldn’t have given you house-room.
You were magnanimous, offered me
a deal on the furniture. You could take
the lot.
I would have beanbags and throws, dream-catchers.
You should have said something profound,
had the words of a mantra for absolution.
Jesus, it was hot house hot!
By the time the birds started to sing
and the rains came, our contents had been sub-
divided neatly into yours and mine.
Kitchen was yours, garden all mine.
I wondered whether she would like
tuna and peaches. I hoped it choked her.
I wanted to ask if she knew a hebe
from a hollyhock; if she knew the
secret of the sweet pea. I wished
her a lawnful of dandelions, boils
on her arse and bunions.
How d’you like them onions, bitch?
You said you couldn’t help your feelings.
Right. You left, your future in a rucksack
on your back. I stayed under an aching sky
and imagined clearing autumn
leaves alone.
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