The sea is rising, slowly.Currently at ankle height.I do not know whether he standsTo admire beauty or await the rising tide.I wish to wait and watch the seaClimb higher on his grey suitUntil the ash wool resemblesCharcoal after a fire. To watch itReach the knees, hips, elbows…But I do not wish to see him drown.The image is so serene, so
Joe’s Parlour was the place for birthdays, special treats and a towering Knickerbocker Glory when Mum divorced, and we went there to celebrate not seeing Dad so often.I didn’t like fruit salad or strawberry sucked like blood through a straw; the never-ending spoon, stirring split cream and syrup water. The confusion of tastes. Nicholas McGaughey has new work forthcoming in
The dawn rips my eyes awayfrom the corners of slumber &I snag it back – a snail recoilinginto the drape of its shell. Behindthe windows breathe the feet oftroubles, forewarning realities thatwait. I drown myself – a crashingairplane caressing the translucenteyelids, I am under the water &eerie rays from above could notlure me up. A waiting warrior ofworries is a
Every morning I watch my breakfastas it sizzles in the frying pan.I eat in solitude,and I think to myself:“I am more alive nowthan I have ever been.” It feels elatingto drink my comfortable tea.Because of this,I smile at myselfwhen I brush my teetheach night. Going out is such a treatwhenthere are no restrictions.The world is really my oyster,as it is
coffee doesn’t taste the same in fact caffeine can be a killer i now often keel over
whilst pregnant during showers dry retching dry or vomiting in the circling water
on my washed feet a cot doesn’t matter
nor the cheap but whatican’t easilybuybabygrows in Barnados
and all i can think of that does matter is cots
There is no fame in our commune.Everyone has the same minimalistic bedroom,the same dim twinkle lights.Shivering swirls of pink dustsing to the edges of the past.Our fireplace is perfectfor the creation of shadows.We forge memory through forest.We watch the seasonal retreat of birds.Much is alive without realizing.Recede through your mind into a rocking chair.Recall snow’s sophisticated blankness, sudden in your
Funny isn’t it, we don’t show the shadows of ourselves.
Supergloss the filter over false smiles,
and don’t let the cracks poke
through the paintwork.
Look at that food, that face, that mountain,
that pristine home and smiling children.
Picture perfect.
if we went to a different school, a different place
if we grew at the same time if your body
bulging with adolescence wasn’t a foot taller
than mine if I had said something
during the three months I was taller than you
if I knew being taller than you had mattered
during those almostmen conversations
Due to limited control of our formatting on posts, the formatting of the following poem is incorrect. we’re always pulling at our limitsthe threads of our temporary bodiestemporary homes I want to patchworkold jeans into new jeans into an ivory skirt and slipinto the sun hips swinging or strip to nothingat all unashamed on the blow-up mattressholding my pronouns proudly
I’ve always thought that synapses traveled
on wings riotous through the wires
and that the one that joined us two
had indigo feathers
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