On the very edge,
where you go to curl your toes
into prayers.
Ten tiny bodies bent shoulder and hip
heads tucked in tight
as if curved spines can protect them
from the weight pressing forward,
you, so wind washed of expression,
clinging on.
Each day there seems less of me.
Folding in on myself,
there is a sense I can crisp my edges,
find the perfect bend,
turn blemishes in and under,
tucked away out of sight.
Any tattered edges can be smoothed,
rebound into covers
tight enough to stop my spilling out.
An ache tells me that I use to spread
all these pages of myself
out across open floors and tables,
revel in how much of me there was.
When did it become a shrinking,
less is more,
best kept out of sight
and out of mind?
Roll my shoulders,
crackle spine of dry flesh
smoked fractures and boiler hiss,
hiccup of breath in a radiator.
Airless and unloved,
in the dank basement of the mind
snow cannot refract any light
into these shadows.
Still it aches on the backs,
eyeballs tight against their sockets
straining past the crisp,
no bounce in the world outside.
Imagine melting into dust,
slithers of self pooling at the foot
of all this make believe.
As endless as this frozen season.
“Airless and unloved, in the dank basement of the mind” L. Igloria ~ A Reparation
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 of. I owe a huge amount of thanks to all of the dVerse Poets who have read and commented on my blog over the last couple of years for encouraging me in my writing, and helping me develop my poetic skills to the point where I could create a collection like this. Taking part in the dVerse prompts has become one of my favourite parts of the week and I’ve met some truly wonderful people. Thank you for everything.
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.
Carol J Forrester 
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