‘What do you hold?’
—-speckles of dust
She looks down
in the space that sits her heart
—‘Who defines the edge of me?’
A glass sits on her desk
filled to the brim
with clear water
‘What do you hold?’
Is it the cells, the bones, the veins
the heart, the breath
——–‘Where am I in all of this?’
Is it the elbow leaning against the table
The ear listening to a distant voice
Maybe the thought of a cup of green tea
—Who defines the edge-
the edge of me?
She tilts her head towards the horizon
her eyes find the crescent
How far is a step
—When edges are no longer defined by me…
‘Growl’ said He.
trickles down her spine.
‘Root’ said She.
Grit and sweat combine.
Shoulders preserve mountains.
Longing wakes the dead.
As she walks…
shadows kiss the light,
and joy whistles through her hair.
In a dark wood
far far away
she stirs her cauldron
3 teaspoons of rain
cook with fire
Who is she
when the lines were drawn
‘Come’ she speaks
South and West
120grams of liquid scars
Why did they think
trap stories in jars?
Sprinkle with 16 grams of voice
an ounce of
to name one
is to name a nation
In a place
as close as the jugular vein
we stir the cauldron…
‘You can hold it’, said the rabbit
and a dance.
with giant safety pins on either side.
Gently pulled by a soft cotton
…to an ornate statue
…………..in an ironed and dressed garden.
She left them.
They took it.
She ran before.
She ran after.
she stopped running.
In a pleasantly lit home,
she is bleeding
there is no movement
thats all there is
In this heavy light
every inch of me
wants to run.
And to remain
…how do you remain?
Within the entangles of movement,
we are all here,
Trying to remain,
dancing with Glances in the dark.
La ilaha illAllah, La ilaha illAllah, La ilaha illAllah…
sticky rice with other stuff in it, all clumped together.
Earlier this morning she left new shoes in a charity bag,
they will be worn by a woman with light silvery hair.
On a plate are pieces of carrots soaked in soya sauce,
the carrots remember seeing daffodils blowing in the wind.
An empty chair in the London restaurant,
calls the tired woman many places away – she is paused in someones war.
A plastic folk on a table near by,
lies across an empty plate wondering,
‘is this it’?
Standing outside, his mouth dry, he remembers a long time ago –
when he bought bottled water, from the comfort of having loose change.
A Newspaper lying in the trash, contemplates the words on page 7, somewhere bullets sparkle in the sky,
and a thousand miles from this place –
a 7 year old boy holds his ears to the sound of fireworks.
‘Draw the circle bigger’ says the army sergeant sat in the corner,
‘Yes’ replies the lady in prayer, kneeled in the same space many years later.
Falling his eyes cast the sky,
‘had I been a cloud I would have travelled far.’
‘What is the plan here?’
‘Pick up leaves and keep walking.’
Messy grass loves feet.
I have a problem,
I have lived a life and realised
the stranger in the room is me…
You said – ‘yes, keep going’.
There is a screaming voice inside.
This scream won’t make a sound, I said.
‘That’s a problem’, You said,
‘screams should always make a sound’.
You paused to watch a butterfly float by
and said –
‘A tight space beckons,
not an inch to spare,
air thinned to a crisp note,
movement restricted to a light hum.
I walked to the edge,
the edge of something-
I stretched out my arms.
My chest wide open and fragile.
My right palm facing upwards,
my left palm facing down,