Pockets Full of Wings

We stopped the car.
You smoked a cigarette and watched for a bit
the fast clouds bringing another rain to our promised land.
I went out and did not look back
to catch a dragonfly suspended by a thin thread
over the undisturbed waters.
I could not swim but
I quietly jumped in, following
the only spot of true colour
since my unfortunate birth.
I did not leave a trace as I walked the meadow.
The only memory sitting now on the empty chair,
the poem I’m writing to you
from the grave.
HAM MILL 24
Photograph: John Stadnicki

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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.

Post Scriptum

Sometimes I think I’m made of words
And not of flesh
A poet eating ice cream
On a tree leaf
But other times
My very flesh will make the words
Which float like water grains
On wooden tables.

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