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Following Black

If with one hand you
made me a king, god,
with the other you
brother have taken everything else
in return.

My wide eyes travel alone
towards colour.
They all stare at my crown.
But words do not weep
and nor do you.

We both have wet muddy hands,
under your skin, new silver,
under mine, a whole new town.

The familiar surrounding of yet
another road to Jerusalem
which I follow
as I follow black.

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The Warm Bones

We are running a bath, my sister and I,
The river drips, drips through the ceiling
While my fingers write poetry on the steamy mirror.

She sits on the bathroom floor, eating chocolate.
Mother says people like her will grow fat and
I know she is probably right
But Clara is always in the same room with me,
Eating chocolate,
Watching my very words.

Clara agrees that I should wash first
And whilst I take my clothes off
All my warm bones fall on the white marble.
She admires my tallness
And folds away my perfect dress.
Clara examines my poem, moving her head from side to side,
Asks whether all this writing is about her.

I do not hear the question
I wash my hair with soap
Her hands follow the lines of my text.
I cannot stop starring at
Her thin reflection in my black icy water.