He told me about the Borzoi,that he saw when he was a child –1956, roughlyHow he loved watching it runSo graceful, he was captivated And I can see it –the sun low in the sky,reflected in bright swipesacross the rippled sandThe beautiful creaturecutting across the landscape,fur damp from the wavesGliding, serene I can’t imagine his boy’s facebut I see his
If you don’t believe in magiclet me tell you something true,that the universe pulled itself apartjust so it could make you.The smallest of bonesonce belonged to something more,and every breath you’ve ever breathedhas been let out before.The parts of you that you don’t like,from your cheekbones to your thighs,were once held inside a shooting starthat burned up in the sky.An
I wanted to be held by something warm and human and complicated. Something woven so tightly you can’t see the spaces between.
1.On a particularly unforgiving morning Carla rings me and tells me to meet her at the V&A Museum where she plans to spend the day looking at people who are looking at paintings. I say yes. We meet in the main foyer and politely enquire after the other’s various schedules and scandals. In both, I am lacking, but Carla’s life
To write poetry is to wring truth from an orangefurl your hands so tightly into rind they turn blue,hear the thudded fall of each kerneled pip into glasswhile its juice catches on the lips between thosegreedy molecules of air-perhaps a single drop, turgid and oilywill break out of the tangled pith in slow motiondetonate into twelve, glittering tearsand you might
There are times that I double-takeA split-second’s slow thinking, the staggeredNavigation, transgressions melting away When flesh drips from me I lose myself, entirelyThe waxy reds, wet pomegranate seeds slickingMy dresses. I remember distantly I am sentientA living, a breathing something. I materialise from obscurityEchoing limbs pulling fingers from faraway piesStapling together this misty body to remind meOf my greatest vice:
In the knee-graze days of bikes and black ant tickles, my mum gave me a comfort snuggle hug. That’s when I heard a click-tick sound inside her, where her boomy-womby heart once thumped its beat.The furniture at home was on the ceiling now. This change made me cry and she wrapped me in that clicking, ticking cuddle. She softly told
Due to restrictions this poem has modified formatting. I did not understand the hardshipof texting are you okayuntil I rolled over in bedand there you were, okay – I did not understandhow badly with love you had bitten meuntil I learned to understand how to clean for twohow to scissor out your hair from the vacuumhow to fold a dress,
“Faith?”
Is he calling me Faith?
My name is Jane.
All we are is snacks and bonesCream cracker corpsesRaisin rainbows risingI am swept in a black currantOf flapjack flashbacksAnd breadstick blues.We have no mealtime, no time at allWe surf the currant from hour to hourOurs is a tasty one, without crustsWe are so empty yet so full. A born and bred Londoner, Li-Li Nectar is an avid houmous-maker and life-long
