All corridors run back to you, though they say loss gets less the longer you let it sit. And you’ve been sitting here, in this hollow you left for a while now Just a slither of yourself with no new words to say that might explain this empty. And barricades don’t keep the door from banging open, every time a storm or gentle breeze blows in. It only takes a name, or a memory, to raise your shade. So I given up airing out this room with all your secrets. Leave another hole in the wall the same shape as my fist, pretend I haven’t when the moments leaves. Re-watch you walk in sit down pick up your drink. Re-watch you pick up your drink.
Spine loose in your bar room seat, feet kicked up between the empties crowing new year, new me to the few that still linger. Pretending there’s still time to make change.
Crossed knives are a bad omen in the same way loose chords are an asking moment. Finger to an open flame flesh against a bared blade, split second decisions for splitting. I should not taste the nail head, should not press my tongue to the buckle of its pockmarked tooth, see if there is any bite left in the iron, if it will be the last one in a row. Six feet seems like such a long way to tumble. I would look like a marionette with my tangle of strings about my throat. Heart skittering like a humming bird still trapped inside its cage.
Is there a quota for mercy? Do they give it to the younger angels, take their hands on clear mornings, and steer them to the edges of clouds where they can peer over the banks into the depths of blue beneath. All our little prayers bubbling up to be popped by small celestial palms crumb dusted from the mercy their mothers have parcelled out so they can toss it to the mortals below. And do some of us know the places to stand on those clear mornings where the young ones chatter and rustle their down like tissue. Which ones crumble mercy to dust so it falls evenly and ripples far, the others who wodge their palms into pebbles that punch through but settle far too soon. Who’s voice calls them home. Mary Mother of God have mercy, mercy on us all Vertigo & Ghosts by Fiona Benson
It takes 725,000 pounds per square inch to transform carbon to diamond. Pressure forces the atoms to crystallise which sounds fragile in truth, like spun sugar, beautiful, but soluble. Yet they hitchhike magma flows, erupt without warning land where they may. The sort of precious men kill for. Rough cut they are still priceless. Polished, they still remember being carbon.
Slipping I slipped deeper on every word you spoke, caught up in the letters like giants and their fingers pinioned and pyloned at the edges of my reason, they made a fence around my certainty. Territorial of territory you deemed dangerous you became guard dog reversed. All teeth and snarl when I made to leave. Or maybe that was me biting the hand at my collar…
Back in June I talked about my plans to self-publish my poetry collection, in a post I called To Self-Publish Or Not To Self-Publish? That Is The Sleep Depriving Question. In all honesty, it really was a tough decision to make, and I questioned myself every time I told someone I was self-publishing because I almost always got the same response. ‘Oh, why have you decided to go down that route?’ At that point in the conversation I could point them towards the blog post where I list all the reasons I decided to go down that route. Of course it wasn’t all smooth sailing from writing that post to finalising the manuscript. There were moments where I wondered if I was making a huge mistake and if I had made the right decision to following this path. However, today I finally felt that it was all worth it. Today I got to hold the proof copy of my poetry collection in my hands. There are still a few tweaks to be made before I’m …
Aurora seeker sits knees folded, like a paperclip, and hands loose on the dirt at the edge of this cliff that has held others that watched for dawn.
Always pointed in words and pose. Perfect poise, perfect response, perfect timing. Held yourself above the rest of us. My own feet too leaden. My words dropped like iron anchors through deck and hull. Took the ship down with me. You reached or so I thought when I grasped for your hand. You were simply gesturing to the view beyond.
She put it to the back of a wardrobe, in a bag of mismatched things, none of any use these days but none the sort you throw away. The sort you keep until they’re found by curious small hands cooped up by the rain on window panes. Discovering you before them.