She brings it in with her,
clung to the tip of her nose
and through her hair
so it’s blacker than night.
Strips out of her waterproofs
till she has shape.
risen high in her cheeks,
on the knuckles of her hands.
Reveals the desperation of it,
zips and openings.
Slid a caress down her neck
till she bears a collar of its touch.
Trails it deeper into the kitchen,
a song to sodden socked feet,
printing a vanishing trail
across the tiles.
When I thought about it
there was no memory of your name
being slipped to me.
Just the taste of it on my tongue
and a certainty for the syllables
chanted into my pillowcase
when my head found home
and I wished you there.
I had to delay getting across to the pub tonight, as I was taking part in another poetry event with some local poets from my neck of the woods. It was done through Zoom and streamed live to Facebook (not without hiccups). I’ve included the link below for anyone interested. It might be fun to try and set up a dVerse zoom night perhaps? I start reading around the 51 minute mark, however the video is a bit choppy and my inability to listen to myself without cringing, means I’m not 100% on what the audio is like.
I tried swearing at the garden pond,
to see if I could goad a water witch
into dredging herself up at at ’em
with enough pissed off vengeance
to take at least one body down.
I wasn’t decided on who I wanted,
squealing in her webbed, wet grip.
Half-thought if she came I’d go,
grab her right back with both hands,
test to see if she tasted stagnant,
or like spring water breaking free
after centuries underground.
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
pick up your drink.
Re-watch you pick up your drink.
For a while I wondered if my grandmother was magic. You see she would talk about the night she spent near Culloden. How my grandfather slept on sound, and she was tossed through dreams of screaming men. The English and their guns, against the all those clansmen, come to die. For a while I believe she’d walked the battle in her dreams.
The tartans, like welsh (for a while) were outlawed to break that spirit. Make them less like them, and more like us. Then they only rise against themselves. The English are very good at making adversaries of themselves.
When a friend shows me her family tartan, there was a plucking sort of feeling. An ache for a history only half understood, and twice removed. I could find it, put it on, but somehow I doubt I would fit. Not enough of the right stuff in me, to tie me into the pattern. Made me wonder how much of myself I can claim.
The loch waters rose
and I saw my own face there
to deep to be reached.