Poetry

Motes in the Blue

Its eyes peer into the bubbles that are lungs,
watching as they burst and refuse to gasp for air.
The ocean spills from my lips as I summon it, whale song,
to sweep me away from the surface,
the pigment dyeing its hide blue.
Sea mines pulse as it passes by, erupting into jellyfish clocks
that snatch at my heart and chest to shock me awake.Clear.

Smother me in sediment, wrap me in coral,
split my skin with the shadow of sunlight
and let the deep rush in.
Help me dissolve, evolve, return.

Certificate: sea foam.

Poetry

Photographs

Moments caught in time,

there for us whenever we want to look back

and see who we were, what we were,

and how far we’ve come.

But what of those past selves of us caught in the frame,

forever in that moment

as the shutter clicked,

marbled into the scene forever more?

 

What if they can see you looking back at them,

wondering how you got so much older,

or when your eyes went from bright and open

to puffed and dark.

Where did that scar come from,

what does that tattoo mean,

and how long have you been wearing that wedding band?

Would they be impressed by you,

or worried at how much life has stamped on your neck

and left you face down in the mud?

Would they wish that they could trade places

and hold hands with your spouse

and hold debates with your friends

or would they seek to bar the window against you forever?

 

Would they recognise you

or are you a stranger

with their face?

Poetry

Next, please.

Crafting, a menu that extends to the farthest craters of the moon. Drawers inside of boxes, containing tiny keys – silver, brass, gold. Locks in high places, just out of reach, tucked behind ears for later thinking. A pot of molten language, sifting, bubbling, evolving. Curses turn to common tongue, tongues that cease to pause and hear. Words tiptoe away down to the shadows.