Poetry

Wield

When at last the deed was done, I slid the knife

back between my ribs for safekeeping.

I’ve been told many times that it’s not safe

to run with a knife in hand, even if you’re already dead.

Imagine slicing off the end of your nose.

How would you explain that to the charming young man

who you were supposed to be meeting for dinner

that evening?

 

Poetry

Boogie

The ribcage was tied with bows –

blue, pink, green – visible

as the sequinned waistcoat flapped open

from the sharp hip swaying.

Kinetic. Tangible.

Creepier than she imagined.

Unless it was imagined.

Hallucinogens pumped into the air, perhaps?

Her best friend was now

an orange rat, after all.

And she was sure she’d had

more skin before.

Poetry

The Teapot Trial

Lined up on the kitchen worktop

are three teapots.

One red.

One blue.

One yellow.

 

In the red

a flame licks the inside,

burning without wick or fuel.

I hold my hand over the spout

where the heat

warms

my purpling fingers.

 

I move to the blue.

Inside that,

a grey cloud swirls around,

pouring rain from the spout.

I gather it up,

wetting my peeling lips.

 

I look to the yellow.

I know what’s inside without touching.

A single seed, freshly sprouted,

waits for me.

I mustn’t touch.

I must touch.

 

If I give in,

I’ll live again.

 

But living

means emotions,

hurts and loves that I can’t control.

 

I’m not ready.

Not yet.