after Sylvia Plath Silence shudders through the room, yet I find forgiveness, whilst carving sculpture into my tomb. We love like gargoyles in gloom, painted grins for hearts bleeding. Silence shudders through the room. I search for bones and flesh, a womb to call my own, whilst whittling sculpture into my tomb. … Continue reading Mad Girl’s Love Song
I haven't written about being in the bath in a while. Larkin wrote about lambs whilst I write about the pink between my toes; wondering if when I was born I knew I would be raised for the slaughter. My lamb eyes blinking, drinking in the sun. Until I learned how to drink bathwater. … Continue reading My lamb heart
My pale, baby face blooms unseen in your bedroom mirror; I watch you, beautiful woman who is not yet mine, dancing in the scent of summer and hypnotised by half moon shadows playing across creaky floorboards. It's Friday night and you shake off those playground blues, put on your high heeled shoes, too dark … Continue reading Friday nights with you, before me
My redhead skin smells the thunder and says thank you; tastes rain in the wind and smiles - opens its stretch marks like smiles not hand-me-downs from sad days, lets the water trickle like glitter or confetti - my redhead skin feels loved. Despite my burnished shoulders, lobster red rather than gold, I know this … Continue reading Redhead
Sometimes I choose titles before my pen reaches the paper; today, this poem, this story, this limb severed from my heart is half untitled because this is for me, for you and the one in the mirror we're so adamant isn't us. As if our reflections are portraits we have painstakingly sat for, only to … Continue reading A poem for –
after Emily Blewitt This is not a rescue. This one will sting like bees and pomegranate seeds; Persephone, oval eyes turned upwards to the darkness beading the sky. This is the beginning of the end, the fall into something new. This is you - tobacco and loose lips, my hips and buttercups. This is … Continue reading This Is Not a Rescue
after Kait Quinn My marbles, my mind, my temper when I was just five and the world kept turning in spite of my stubborn hands and feet trying to scale the stars. Breadcrumbs and balls of string; every attempt to find my way back home again; to savour the word again as it slips … Continue reading Things I have lost
They read a poem about a girl who is forced to leave a war-torn country, a home swarming with tanks and sunlight. The teacher asks them what they know about refugees; what it means to be displaced. They are shown a picture of a child washed up on the shore; the picture which made us … Continue reading Classroom study
after Emily Brontë & Emily Dickinson Hope makes herself comfortable in the dark. the moon has run away Even if she looked up, she would not see the sky but for the hairline crack in the lid of the jar. Her wings no longer flutter; they collect dust like swollen sapphires found glistening in … Continue reading Hope
My first harvest was bittersweet: the smell of wheat cut at the knees. Golden dust swirling in gusts, collecting in the sun-baked tractor tracks; waiting for an augur of untold fortunes to tell me which way is life. And so I watch again the propensity of my heart to fall, to fail, to start … Continue reading The second harvest
