Handbag

Put your keys in the fridge.

Pack the milk into your handbag.

Search for the glasses resting on your nose.

It makes sense, doesn’t it?

The Same

Sense does not sound the same to everyone.

Right does not feel the same.

Freedom does not taste the same to everyone.

Sure does not look the same.

A Razor’s Edge

If you walk on a razor’s edge, be prepared to get your feet cut.

If you walk on a razor’s edge, don’t fall.

Teacup

This is less like a storm in a teacup;

more like a hurricane in a shot glass.

Jumper

On threads of a jumper, you are all pulling.

One at the sleeve, one at the neck, one at the waist, one at the back.

One hooks, like an old lady who knows knitting, only in reverse.

Another twists around the finger, tight, while the other picks at speed.

One is unravelling the structure, round in circles, bottom-up, continuous.

The solid shape, thick and warm before, has holes in it now.

Perhaps let the pieces go, before all that’s left is an untidy mound of wool on the ground.

Before it’s not a jumper anymore.

Crash – A Story Without Characters

The sun blazed through the windows; the air was hot and full of busy noises pushing it around. Moving fast enough and with the windows open, there was some sense of a breeze, cooling the seats and surfaces in the car.

Right in front and out into the distance, the road stretched like a black elastic band, rippling a little, like growing goosebumps, as the heat of the sun penetrated it, turning off here and there, and at the end. The car bids farewell to the tarmac rolling over it, four points of contact. From the turns ahead, other cars journey on, most of them careful in the light and heat. Most of them.

The car spins, dancing, first like a playground game, just for a few seconds; after that, it moves more like a barrel rolled down into a cellar, its contents destined to cause more dancing cars on more rippling roads, though it doesn’t know it. The barrel stops.

Eventually, the air is not only hot, but loud – almost musical – and brightly coloured. Red and blue. Nothing about the car is moving anymore, not within, not without. The music and lights roll along the road, at speed, but at least it knows what it is doing. While the air cools in towards the evening, the face of the tarmac is scarred; a black curve.

Doors yawn, breathe out, a mind of their own, welcoming metal poles and plastic tubes, and four smaller wheels, not designed to scar; if anything, they plan to do the opposite.

Small black keys click downward, small white buttons too; worn away. Small grey tiles, punished by rushing leather, soft and determined rescuers; worn away. None of the colour of the lights from before, nor from the sun before this all happened. The walls hum, machines click; they are not musical.

Charts speak in foreign languages, clipboards in embraces acting as their translators; crossed white sleeves are like practiced swords – clear, sharp, swift, and simple. A cross means ‘no’. A cross means the sleeves have lost, their treasure has been pillaged. They are the crossed-bones; and now for the skull.

Short, rhythmic beeps punch holes in the air, in the walls, in the ceiling. The structures will survive it, though; the beeping is calming to a stop. Slow. Slower. The green snake lets out one final hiss – long, high – and slithers away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hear

At least you heard me, when I spoke. I can’t hear a thing.

Sick

Some words make you feel sick when you say them because you feel sick.

When you say them, you shouldn’t feel sick; you should say them when you feel sick.

 

Sinking

I take a step forward,

and my feet sink into the carpet.

I have no idea where I am.

Reset

The kitchen floor is cold, and you can feel every detail of the grain of the wood,

like your own fingerprints as they press into the varnish.

Your chest is flat against the floor, and both are solid.

For all you know, the pressure you feel could be a ceiling falling down upon you,

not the weight of your body, and the weight of everything else.

Ground is foundation; it is beginning.

To start again from nothing – lying down, quiet – is simple, or so it sounds.

Stand

Please don’t move a muscle;

not to breathe, not to speak, not to count.

Don’t move your feet.

I can’t stand the thought of you leaving.

 

Dancing The Waltz

I know the fairground makes your head spin,

but dancing this Waltz with you makes me just as dizzy,

when you’re there at every turn.

Toothache

I can already feel my nerves reacting,

like a toothache after too much sugar,

only it’s nowhere near as sweet.

Pick and Pluck

Pick your battles with as much precision as you pluck your eyebrows,

but with much less ease than you pick faults with yourself,

and it would be safe to assume that the fruits will taste much sweeter,

that the scent of the battle will be much less bitter.

The Voyage

The salty air has not yet taken away your scent from around me.

The sun has not yet blinded me to the image or your face.

The heat has not yet scared the tips of my fingers away from touching your skin.

And the noise has not yet deafened me to the sound of your voice.

The distraction has not yet allowed me to forget who you are.

They won’t, though they may try. But remember –

The moon has not yet set when the sun has not yet risen; the sun has not yet awoke when the moon has not yet slept.

They are apart, for our sake.

They will keep us together, until we are together.

Speak

You have soft lips, and a tongue inside your head with which to speak.

You have a mind capable of most things; a mind which can endlessly imagine or express.

You have a song in your heart which plays all the time, ringing in your ears.

But you are silent.

Speak up.

Eagle

Yesterday you learnt the word ‘eagle’.

Today you burrowed and organised, like an army of ants.

Tomorrow, you will be a hybrid with a lion heart.

Honey – A Haiku

Your voice rolls right off

your tongue. On mine, just for me,

it tastes like honey.

Won’t You Smile

Smile, won’t you, love.

The blue in your eyes is beautiful when you do.

Your voice is smooth, and soft.

Won’t you smile, love.

Won’t you smile.

Between

What will I do when there’s a sea between us?

 

Stitching

Hold it together.

We are stitching the seams, you and me.

I am the needle, you the silk thread.

We are stitching the seams, you and me.

An Elephant

If you can scare an elephant,

as the notion goes,

you can do anything at all,

and much more than anyone knows.

It’s We

You feel like you fit in the palm of my hand;

you curl up there; it’s easy, I see.

But all the words don’t befit,

can’t say just enough.

Thank goodness it’s not you, it’s ‘we’.

Mouse

A mouse is a lion, if it believes that it is.

It roars just as loud, if it wants to.

You’re Back

Where are you?

In the space of three nights, the crack in the tarmac got larger and the dark a little colder.

You’re back, at last. The light has cracked between the clouds and the tarmac is flat and warm under my feet.

Thank goodness.

You are a Fairytale

When our tempers flare, and I bite, it feels like the moment the captain lost his hand.

When I bite, the taste is like a poison apple; I feel it burning in the pit of my stomach.

Thank goodness for the happier endings, my love. You are a fairytale.

Lay Down – A Haiku

Why are you gone, love?

There is a spot here; right here

next to me. Come back.

Giraffe

The giraffe does not bow it’s head, when it realises it is taller than the other animals.

The lion does not stop roaring, when it realises it is louder.

The birds do not hide in the dark, when they realise they are brighter than the other animals.

The gazelle does not slow down, when it realises it is faster.

Do not let the other animals hold you back. You are the king of beasts; you are evolution.

They, my dear, are not.

I Know

I already know.

I can feel it in my chest, when you feel it in yours.

I can hear it in my head, in your voice.

I can see it in your eyes, like looking in a mirror.

Put your hand on my chest, listen to me, look into my eyes.

You will be fine, my love.

When Nana Raised Her Hand

When Nana raised her hand, back when her hair was auburn and the lines in her skin only appeared when she smiled, they told her to put it back down.

When she raised her voice, back when papa started to hold her close and she danced in the music halls, she was told to be quiet.

Nana’s voice is beautiful; it always was. Her hands are soft, as always.

When Nana raises her hand, everyone sees. It’s higher than ever, these days – there is strength and wisdom and fight, etched into her fingerprints.

When she raises her voice, there is a silence as pure as platinum. Everyone listens when Nana speaks; each word she speaks has a story in it, each full stop is a point in history.

Nana’s hands have held on to pickets, flowers, lovers, and each of us. Her voice has shouted for votes, for time, for education, and for work; Nana’s voice has sung us all to sleep.