Whitby Harbour
You can’t quite put a finger on it – whetted, held up to feel the wind. Maybe it’s something on the – &nbs
Tasbih
(I don’t want this poem to be in English) I once called you rosario, a crucifijo clenched in the hand of Abuela whose lágrimas are a stuttering lluvia que cae al rancho. It cuts carretera-stones, prays for the roadside skulls of drunken sons. I want men to stop leaving her: for Abuelo Güicho to
Portokalia
“out of nothing I have created a strange new universe” – János Bolyai We were left an orange, sunset-blotted, not the golden apple we forgot. We were left a portokalia, when we stopped seeing, piles of leaves and mounds of mud gathered around the garden under our feet. We were left lost l
Stockholm Syndrome
we captured the city / persuaded the morning to wait / not to dawn / or betray us / or tread on our shadows just yet now we are alone / but entrapped is a bat in the net of your wings / these have managed somehow to regenerate we captured the towers / […]
Dialogue
It’s easy enough to get in-between things, easy enough to see you sway in the library corridor between your shadow and the rainy window I sway in the library corridor between my shadow and the rainy window, when it comes up in a quiet moment, the current hitting the backs of my knees and you’re
Quicklime
They froze Frieda in quicklime; They did it in front of a mirror, always inspired by the glass screen. Screams, screams! Everybody leans in for a peek. Quicklime, and her hands move fast; motion freezes faster with skin-fizzing bubbles. Actions pass, and her shape turns calcite-white and solid still
Blight
A tangle of growing things filled your belly: made your shrinking stomach bulge. Strings turned taut; drawn across each bend and curve now struck bare. Arid, audible – a space between each branch yawning. Fissure in the breeze. Chewed or gnawed: your fraying edges expanded the light between yo
First Home
The front door was pale and blotchy But its fist clenched my key, unpeeling the hall. It squatted cold and stared, clutching a leg Of ham whose skin flaked fat-yellow on the floor. I found some plums in the fruit-bowl. Their flesh sagged. Their purple sank. They swallowed when I touched them. Then y
The Rhymelessness of Orange
The tangerine played hard to get, Full-pipped and bursting ’til it wept In half a drop – and in the bed it Let itself, still pressurised, Implode. And now, I see the eyes (Tomorrow’s seeds) come whining. Lungs segment and shine with Pithy veins of difficult. The reeling brains unsqueeze A