The Year Pt. I

That morning
after a late one,
laughing and falling back asleep
or one is asleep
the other just holding her
watching light flicker on the wall

Neither knows what time it is
both know it doesn’t matter
there’s no time
with you
half-asleep

Last night faded faraway
and you in my
arms here,
the white sheets and me
cradling you asleep
fingers softly on
the pillow

A phone buzzes
but there’s nothing
outside of this room,
nothing
to take you away from me, now

Nothing but time

Dorset

Eating raspberries
Half an hour before
you talked of your sister’s achievements

“Not that you aren’t special too!”

And something cracked
as the heartless man in the car-park
shouted an insult
at your beautiful, shaky-fingered Gran

“No, n-no, that was my fault, it – “

The Dorset clouds gathered
snickered and rained fatigue
all down your cheeks

You’re getting older
drip drip
You’re just getting older
drip drip

And a trickle of failure maybe
through the buttons of your shirt

Holding the creased paper bag
a quiet kind of melancholy softness seeping through
Her and through

your younger body standing next to Her

Today at School

Today at school

nobody learnt anything

the teachers were stuck to their desks

the students were accidentally put on silent

we sat in a circle in a classroom

I felt my claws extending and retracting

my words, too

extending and retracting

and my eyes were stuck on the three girls opposite

each retrieving a phone from a pocket

glancing, tapping

putting it down

glancing, tapping

putting it down

extending and retracting

repeat steps 1-3, several times, until the hour is over

and you’ve successfully attended a tutorial

the clock strikes eleven

silently

then everyone leaves

just to step out until 10 past

and then, entering into the next room

for the same scene again:

“hi everyone, did you all have a good weekend?”

“what did you enjoy from the lectures this week?”

ok, let me see.

Tuesday.

the doddering American with his slow, yellow-lettered slides and these are the statistics of my country, the United States, and here you can see FOURTY-five, surprise surprise, FOURTY-five percent of the population denomination legalisation industrialisation

and at this point the phones got pulled out again

and again

sky blue bubbles dotting the theatre

and no-one was listening of course,
but nothing was being said

…we’re caught in our own ellipses

waiting for someone else to speak

Divisions


dividing orange-yellow days
finite as ever before
fixing glasses on a tuesday
to the tea I hold today, on a wednesday
 
staying immaculate with purple lips on a night
frustration over dinner just a wisp
in the wind of the moon upstairs
and perfume spilling as water, your breath
 
though
I spoke of nothing yesterday
each minute a metal rod
collected around our feet
far from made-up cobwebs in the shop
 
sitting downstairs in the library
a face in a stripe of light
and a woman in pink outside
carrying the skeleton of a forgotten animal
 
the frowning building next-door
a wish and a hope
encased soft in white bread
suffocating silent in plastic tears
 
but enough nonsense now
for this year is better
and the leaves we hold onto
as they fall of their own accord
 
glimmering shadows
past the paint of
your fresh cream door

Six o’clock and I’m sitting upright


April 1st April 4th April 7th, 18th, 25th
blank upper-space A4
Pound, occupation: Modernist, why?

3 hours for self-improvement 101
it’s all you could find
looking at the clock to write the numbers on your hand
from the get up, the get go:
information leak 0.25, 0.5, 0.75

praxis, parallelograms, politically, philologically
fixated frustrated frowns –
Forward it through, friend.
Friend?
For what, for life? for coffee?

you’ll have to wait, then
this won’t be finished until oh, Your application has been received, tick
? Yes, oh, yes, uh
skinny flat white no sugar please
$3.40, $3.80, $3….
and what are they, those slices of – could you tell me -? Never mind

Running late, meet me on the corner
behind building 9 no building 10 no
Skip that, today is rehearsal week 5
1.2.8.

Wait,
I
missed it

The Jarrah Table



At night I don’t hear the whales anymore

they used to sing, and float
magnificent,
translucent
around the foot of my bed

or around the caves in my head

so I could always sleep
in the truth of home.

Tap the piano keys. Bang them,
place your entire palms on the rectangular ivory fingers
and crash, explode your feelings out

in a glorious, cathartic drone

Please, bring me back
to the steady 5 o’clock days
where my father’s thoughts
echoed in notes

around the shadows in our house
and in the shadows hiding,
content

under the solid Jarrah table.

I rejoice in a group
of four knitted souls
brought together by candles
and a meal

I now think of three,
and it makes my face crumple

Like the paper I threw away
every time I tried
to write myself
a letter.
So now, now that I am more
than a mere crescent moon

but less than full

it’s all I can do, some evenings,
to pick up the prettiest autumn leaves

and hold them tender
in my two pockets,
clutching also

to a postcard from Paris in the 60’s

whilst

The apple crumble topping, sits,
pleasantly, in that constant site of destruction

reminding me of ovens, your hugs
Hermione the cat

and the thick, magnanimous
grape vine
wrapping its arms around us

every day of the year.