Poetry

If only to see you

I’ve got eyes on my hands and they’re watching you.

They’re watching you even when I’m not.

I can’t stand to, you broke me.

Buried me under rags made to look like fine silk,

curse words uttered so sweetly they might be compliments,

palms to my cheek masquerading as gentle caresses.

I can see that change in your eyes

even when I don’t care to look.

Notice your posture straighten, lips purse.

I can look away, but the eyes on my hands

stay focused, recording your every move.

Frequency; time, date. Evidence.

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Poetry

Manicure

I dip my hands into the grey. Confront it. Speak my mind. The grey sticks to my fingertips. Oil slick. Washing up liquid is repelled by it. Water too. A glove; second skin. Black and white is not my colour.

Poetry

Ripples

A ripple in a glass of water

can never leave the glass.

Yet if the glass ever cracks,

the water can push against it,

working away to force an opening.

Even if the gap it makes is only

wide enough for a trickle to escape,

sometimes that trickle is all that’s needed.

Seeping across the table,

weaving its way through discarded cutlery,

crusted salt and pepper pots

and past dusty, fine china plates

to the edge, where droplets form

ready to drip into the dry soil

filling the plant pot below.

The fresh seeds lying in wait

beneath the surface

will finally get

their spark of life.