For the village of strong women that raised me. I am indebted, always.
I will always need another body to follow through the fog
another voice to cut through the darkness
a thousand more tongues to set alight when our syllables
more fingernails to watch collect ink and stone as they claw their way home Continue reading “A Song for Many Mothers”
I want to shake her
when she surfaces, coughing,
my whole body shakes
when she dives again
exhaling yes like they will give her breath
I say no as if I could slow her fall. Continue reading “Plenty More Fish in the Sea”
It’s hard to find a funny poet – it seems that the vast majority of us are doomed to sit around bemoaning the sad state of the world as it is/was/always will be. It’s even harder to find someone who can be funny without being either superficial or depressing. But somehow, despite the many ways the world has changed for the worse in the four years since My Family and Other Superheroes, Jonathan Edwards has done it: he’s got me laughing again. Continue reading “Jonathan Edwards’ “Gen”: A Human Comedy”
Do you think she stands there just because she can;
To feel the pulling wind of soon arriving trains
Balancing the tightrope of the platforms edge
As she sways to the echoed vibrations?
Continue reading “Please be Reminded that Eye Contact is not Permitted on the Underground”
A two hundred and fifty year old bridge
gone. Destroyed in a winter’s afternoon,
by the torrent pouring off from the ridge,
the lake rising rapidly in the monsoon,
Continue reading “Pooley bridge”
I dread the poem I shall one day write
To read to those who knew you, knew your heart,
The kindness of your soul.
Its rhymes are phantoms in my mind;
Continue reading “Premonition”
is not a period
but it’s funny how the homograph is used in this way—to shut things down, as a period (.) is the end of a sentence, the shut down of conversation, a period as it seems to be also does this too whenever a girl has one,
Continue reading “Shedding”
Some days I think I might have been a witch.
I have the temperament for one – brooding, meticulous,
able to whip up a potion as easily as winking
in the rusted cauldron that hangs over my firepit,
chattering in the background like an old housewife.
They’d come to my cottage (of course it would be a cottage)
and track mud all over my freshly scrubbed floors
and ask me to fix any number of ills.
Continue reading “The Modern Heretic”
I am eight years old when my father takes me on a ghost hunting tour
and I do not sleep for weeks afterwards.
My mind cannot shake the spectres on my dreams –
they have embedded themselves into the bricks that built the city
and pave the streets Continue reading “Eight-een”
How do you store light the way everyone else only stores life How have you trapped the heat of a thousand suns When I can only hold on to the warmth of one And how did you create this magic field And when did you become my angelic shield And how do you fend of the demons that I didn’t know I didn’t need Did … Continue reading Golden Boy