Why do that to yourself? Play around with perfection, even if it was only skin deep, and the smoothness of these curves turned your stomach at night, when dusk settles its hands either side of your hips, presses into the grooves where his tools worked you into beauty. Mounted you his sculpture for all men to see. Do you not appreciate how his love made you into a woman worth seeing?
If I was my mother, and you were a horse, I would not wrap the lead into my fist as we walk the track with their ruined nissan huts patch up by ivy, so we can’t see through the hollow sockets of broken windows to the emptiness inside, always emptiness inside, and always me with a fist of lead to draw you closer to heel in case the emptiness is not what it seems.
Spent an evening smashing holes in the walls you’d fixed, and smoothed with filler. Waited for the dawn to discover the bones of this house now naked of plaster. Wondered if I looked as broken, beneath. If I would catch light just as quickly.
With a smile steeped in pomegranate wine you laughed, tipped your head back, closed your eyes against the sun painted in place in a sky that never greyed, unlike me who seemed to leech all colour from our Elysium, so perfect in the way it held you, in the way it caught me like a trap.
Last night I dreamed you real. Felt you within the softness of my belly. Loved you an existence. Broke my heart open, when this dream came loose. Woke to pre-dawn, a sleeping husband, a house just the same, and an ache too close to grief for someone not quite here yet.
Tomorrow has taken to pressing up against the windows, fingers splayed on the glazing, eyes big like old iron lamps swinging in the wind this way, then that. Where can you hide in this glass house of yours, with the statues you carved out of all the words swallowed instead of spoken and choked up behind closed doors, with tomorrow still pressed up against the windows. And what do you say to the policeman with the kind eyes who takes a statement, writes down eyes like old iron lamps, and promises that they will look into it while tomorrow is still pressed up against the windows. Tonight we’re being asked to think about the days of the week with our poems, and I’ve wandered a little off topic with mine by focusing in on the idea of tomorrow. While you’re here, I just thought I’d mention that my poetry collection ‘It’s All In The Blood’ is available to buy through Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com. It’s a self-published venture and a project that I’m incredibly proud …
I felt the day yawn this evening. Stretch itself a little further, a little longer. Shoulder up against the dusk and edge another moment of space for itself, before slipping back beneath the blankets of shadow beyond the train station. I tell myself it was waiting for me. Finally found a coat warm enough to ward off Winter’s frosty demeanour. Scuffed a booted foot against the concrete pavement, shimmered in the puddles with each sure, step. Can’t be sure if I’ll see the same tomorrow. Crack open the office doors and find night too close for comfort, the space between bare branches weighed out in shadows. Wonder why she left so soon, if she ever turned up the first time. Spring slips in shyly, sets down roots slowly, with care, when you’re not looking.
Blue lipped kissed, laid your cheek on the ice and searched for a gap you would slip beneath. Like hunting for pennies beneath kitchen counters, their copper wink bite so, so cold in your palm. And a creaking below of sheets shifting, rising, a threat to throw you out into the wakeful night. What you would give for stillness another side of the looking-glass. Thank you for stopping by, and if you enjoyed the poem above then you might enjoy my poetry collection ‘It’s All In The Blood’ which can be purchased from Amazon.co.uk or Amazon.com. It’s a self-published collection so I have to rely on readers buying and reviewing the book to help promote it, especially in places such as the USA. Thank you again for your time.
The guidelines for those of you who are new are as follows: Speculative Fiction: a genre of fiction that encompasses works in which the setting is other than the real world, involving supernatural, futuristic, or other imagined elements. [Oxford Dictionary] Use the image below to write a story, poem, perhaps even a script. There are no rules about form or style. If you would like to create a piece of art in response that is also welcome. This prompt is about being artistic and creative in whatever way suits you best. Please keep entries PG as this is open to all. (i.e no erotica) The prompt is open from the first of the month to the end of the month. Use pingbacks to link up to the prompt or leave a link in the comments section. Whichever you prefer. I try to at least read every entry in the prompt and I’d love to encourage anyone taking part to try and check some of the other entries if they can. As always, re-tweets, re-blogs, and …
Caught you, cheeks still glittering with last night’s sand and your head so heavy in my palms that I thought it a moon caught up in my orbit, the rings about us singing that all dreams must end.