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Poems

How to Pour Madness into a Teacup

She hangs her tears at the front of the house
cuts the rain in half and puts time
in the hot black kettle. She sits in the kitchen
reading the teacup full of small dark tears;

it’s foretold the man in the wood
hovers in the dark rain above the winding path.
The man is talking to her in moons,
she is laughing to hide her tears

and with little time, she secretly
plants the moons in the dark brown bed.
She shivers, thinks the man is watching
as the jokes of the child dance

on the roof of the house. Tidying,
she carefully puts hot rain in the teacup,
sings as she hangs her tears on a string
and watching the dance, thinks herself mad.

in collection How to Pour Madness into a Teacup, 2009 Cinnamon Press

978-1-90709-000-4;

published in Orbis#142 Winter 2007, The Spectator, November 2008

———————————————————————

Yellow Trousers

She can talk forever.
He does not have that long,
there are people,
appointments.
They are not her business.

He wears yellow: odd,
he has not worn it before.
It does not suit him.
He is not quite there:
his head is outside

with his yellow trousers
in the park perhaps,
or a coffee shop.
His sleeves rub the table,
dirty at the cuff.

in collection How to Pour Madness into a Teacup, 2009 Cinnamon Press

 

—————————————————————–
Passenger

She packs her past in a red suitcase,
out of style, gaudy:
“Look at me,” it shouts,
a merchant of insanity.

It circles the terminus
round and round on the conveyor belt
like some terminal illness
waiting to begin.

She didn’t move fast enough,
lost herself to its motion
and the inconsolable past,
unresolved, moves on too.

in collection How to Pour Madness into a Teacup, 2009 Cinnamon Press

978-1-90709-000-4;

—————————————————————————

Undressing for Death

 

The bathroom shrieks
as I take off my skin,

peel casing to carcass.
Tonight I remove it all.

Stepping out is easy,
it’s been coming off for days.

What a relief. It does not flatter me,
I need more colour in my cheeks.

Where are my manners?
I have not introduced you

to my skin. Look at the light
through it, at the needle pricks

from lashes sticking through
the slits of limp eyelids.

You can discover me
in my hands, a lacework of veins

you can unravel.
I am woman, I am vellum.

My bones might snap
at the gap between my lungs

and where my breasts should be.
I abandon my body to you

so you can feel its motion.

in The New Writer, No. 101, March/April 2010

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