On the very edge,where you go to curl your toesinto prayers.Ten tiny bodies bent shoulder and hipheads tucked in tightas if curved spines can protect themfrom the weight pressing forward,you’re so wind washed of expression,clinging on.
Their heads bob like drinking birds,of course, of course, of course.Necks pulled up from their collar bones.I have never seen throats so openas when your snout is at their jugularthe gleam on bright white teethmasked by sheer magnetism. Tonight’s quadrille prompt had me a little stumped to begin with. Then I started writing about iron filings, got stuck fifteen words in, and wrote this quadrille instead. I even got to bring out one of my own sketches to use for the feature image.
It takes three minutes to brew black tea.
English breakfast, china mug,
Despite the hosing, stems still cling to their cobwebs. Strands draped between limbs, threads quivering in a threat to untangle. Roses grow thirsty again in a moment, stripped out of their petals heat caught up on their thorns. A lessening, in want of more.
Tescos ran out of loo rolls and soapboxes. Stay-at-home politicians with keyboards and opinions screeching their how-to, quick-fix slogans. Have you not been told? Fake it till you make it means everyone’s an expert. No one wants to say, we’re all just fucking lost. I’ll just slink back off to my grump little hobbit hole. Rant over in just forty-four words.
The fridge stinks again, the thing lolling at the back, sweating, sickly sweet, cling film wrapped and taunting as if to say ‘this is just your desert for peeling me down till we both cried shameless, and you held a knife like a question.’
Tonight beasts broke loose and rose up roaring, their bright comet backs bleeding light from spectating stars trembling between each other, thankful for the distance. Close at hand we drew curtains, played peekaboo with things we’d thought buried. Only real if we see them.
A moment stretched is still a moment. Curled into the afterglow we looked relaxed, yet I felt your hands clawed in the fabric, prepared to tear the seconds from an hour, as if they might be worth more alone than part of a whole.
Always just sort of truly set these ways wobble wonderfully, or is it woefully? Uncertain if they’re certain about the shape of the course decided upon, waited upon, debated upon. This is what has been done. So far… for now… Not quite as pictured. A very quick poem before I head to bed tonight. It was my first night back on the judo mat, so I’ve only just got home, but I didn’t want to miss the Quadrille night. Can’t wait to read the others tomorrow. (P.S, I almost think this might count as a political poem… huh… not really done one of those before.)
Belly stretched bare to sun, these hands could be paws when fingers curl in to palms, padding softly, or soft patter of rain on skin, water caught in fur till I shrug free this coat and the weight of me trapped inside of it.