I’m weighing words. Counting them like beach glass. Trying to judge how you might distort the light through them. Most I will slip back inside my hollow throat. Swallow, like tablets or seeds. Ignoring the fizz as they hit my gut, sprout up, and wrap around anything else there is to say.
Does it count as taking your time, pausing between each item fingers on clasps, heartbeat a tempo dancing beneath the skin in a skip, skip rhythm I felt against my breastbone. Slid my foot along the seat of a chair like the one I sat in, bare skin cold against the plastic. Counted the buttons, two, four, six, stopped when they ran out and fabric hung loose from my shoulders. Open. Parted my thighs the same, slow, or maybe fast, the motion of it blurred in memory distracted by your face close to mine. Open mouthed. Kissed you, slowly. Open legs. I won’t say what we did next.
You have to swim here. Kick to keep afloat, and scoop the water into yourself, with arms winged either side of a weightless body. Dug out by the flow, a pool deepened by cascade. A bridge masked by track and concrete. This place is thick green almost jungle. Clear right to the sand, easy to pretend I know this place. Too well to be tricked. Safety in confidence I say. Water washes all clear away, but to where, and when, will it come to shore again? A prompt mash up tonight. Ending on a question for NaPoWriMo Day Two and ‘Cascade‘ for dVersePoetsPub poetics night.
Slip your hands beneath the ocean, sift the sands, though the debris laid to rest and the bones of forgotten things boiled down to soup stock in the murk. There is still a thread there, find it. A silver of something live, whispering as an eel beyond your fingertips. But you are not the trap or the bait or the line. You are the caught thing, the lost thing, the forgotten thing. Slip your hands beneath the ocean and find yourself.
They name me jealous one. Plait snake through my hair, till it rises about my shoulders a mane of venom. Perhaps this is true enough. They say I crush men, the ones who come to me through their own will and actions. Lay the cruelty of betrayal at my feet. I am not my sisters, blood avenger, unceasing in pursuit. I am an emotion painted upon every action I set forth. I am furious and bright, burning beyond recognition till they shield their eyes and call me ugly. I am a woman of power. I’m so excited that it’s NaPoWriMo again and I get to drive in with the Early Bird Prompt. For anyone who doesn’t know what NaPoWriMo is, it’s an annual poetry challenge that takes place over April. The idea is to write a poem a day for all of April, resulting in 30 poems in total. (31 if you include the Early Bird Prompt). The NaPoWriMo site provides prompts if you want to use them but …
There is a collective misguided assumption, that we know the words. Singing like rusted taps, gargling and spluttering our way to the chorus where enthusiasm trumps experience, and pipes swell and burst so all is noise and furious revelry. The wave of it crests breaks, washes us along to the next line. As real as the misting of our breaths as we sing. The cold is not felt in the thick of it.
Someone says panic attack, adrenaline spike, low, calm, and confident, laying a diagnosis out like a challenge, while I sit here, stumped, all root and no branch to climb up, to escape by, not a spike but a stake pinning me in this place.
Found fuel in my anger and burnt like a star. Bright but bitter. Still, it was beautiful, to be cloaked in fire. A phoenix for you to pluck over and over until ash, then flame, over and over again, and again. Until I ran out, grew volatile, beyond control. Singed you, a little. Realised fear, on your face when I broke past your expectations. Learnt burning eats you, from the inside out. Word of the Day: Fire
Keep your balance and your wits grasped tight. Knot them between your fingers like purse straps when the street empties to darkness and even the lamplight does little to chase away shadows. There’s no rescuing dignity if you spill, heels caught in the rickets of this ladder we’ve built from the bones of those who wept behind closed doors. Emotion would prove them woman and that was weakness, still is in the eyes of some. So the weak gift their spines and prayers, hollow themselves into armour for the next generation, and the one after that, in a desperation that they will be the drop that tips the scales to even.
I was born in a house with an unlocked door, had to teach myself to turn the key at night and then in the day to keep the warnings on the other side of this slate of wood, varnished to look like an invitation. For the Thursday Photo Prompt: Invitation