I often forget
The mirror isn’t camera
There’s a hacker under the lenses
Of my corneas
Shooting me paralysed and pickled in snapshots
Of someone else’s desire,
My own skin rendered a suit
I’d rather crawl free of like pupa.
There are a lot of things that send my vision spinning:
And the screamingly obvious ways we’ve gagged their honesty.
Men’s eyes catcalling behind their lids
How can a look be so loud
And the subject so silent?
When did we forget to look quietly?
Catch the softness of an afternoon in the garden
The unspoken amongst the leaves
The bare tangibility of an unmade face in the morning
They sit in the dark, under the sky of light bulbs
that pull observing eyes
colourfully strung satellites , microscopic dots
painting bucolic scenes.
The humans are at it again;
peaking sister out of bed, nicks all the milk
left for fluffy man in red suit, Sandy Claws
suspended on the drain pipe.
Doors down, the old King is dead
the Extinctionists next door killed poor Nick
stuffing the yearly cheer into box coffins-
pageantry piled up in the attic junk yard
Some find shoulders of land
in living rooms hit by tornadoes, battleground
the fallen soldiers, death by wrapping paper.
Unto the forest she drags herself
spectral Queen with more than a bite-
quite the talker.
Lion woman could cut out your tongue
devastate you like meteorites
flung like punches under satellites
mistaken for comets.
The noble trees mark her transit
some stand, others are sold to the ground
like chopped limbs, barbecued
to lessen the risk
of caving in your skull.
Lion woman with her atlas hands
nothing but clear cracks and tears
from chemical burns
walks half full, fear fossilised here
in the wake of man.
She wants nebulas for irises
the warm hug of a space suit
like the tin foil blankets
they give you outside a hospital room-
at least then they’d save her.
She yearns to pluck the stars
and keep them near her poached heart
but they already belong to the galaxy
and the moon has the sun’s love.
There is a sense of belonging
in wanting to touch the sun in gentle strokes
to smooth it in, acrylic smudge,
valley of yellow on your shoulders-
two proud beacons burning, feeding us with enough light to grow
from the rotting bark that has pulled apart to nothing.
The ends of my hands hold firm the beach rope that has longingly
held together our sleepy boat house
strawberry red cuts, gentle stings
and there is little now except the words that tremble
that rip apart my throat like a tangled mess of phone cord
spilling over berry bruised organs exposed for bird pickings
as the line breaks.
How is it that you slip so silently to garner wood and ill- strung words
when death turns under every stone
unscathed, when the wind slices so neatly at my cheeks
and its been weeks since we’ve seen home-
now nothing more than the fire we blow through our hands
to keep our lungs from collapsing.
The kind of monster you expect from a puddle
So little time
Sift this temporary grounding through my gills
Tusked faeries hunting females
Toads rutting in the gloom
Eggs left in the dirt
Tadpoles grow legs
We are microscopic cannibals
Cloning ourselves, splitting in stress
Of the daylight death swelling
Above our heads
The choking that’s to come
That small, mud-born
Egg-sacked ghosts of ourselves
We will sleep until the rain falls