Oyster on the tideline
Not that I’m shy about my flesh
though I wish it less scarred and southern
there are few men who have seen
me naked. You join them now
for this intimacy. Private, away from
all, you tell me to disrobe.
Unblinking I obey. There’s something
about the light on this shore
that makes it natural, like salt worn boards
or prized flint pebbles
but when I propose a streak from hut
to the sea, you explain the limits.
Civilisation and the neighbours
who’ll, no doubt, be first in line
to see me posed on the blue sofa in oils.
Crime of passion domestic violence counting
I’m shallow-breathed, flat under the table and
aching everywhere, as a blood tear meanders into my hair and
sink-holes in my ear, stopping the echo and
I fix on the rough planks, biroed and
crayoned by one of the girls, I know not which, and
this from years ago, I’ve not seen before and
I wonder when, or why, and
what was I doing? or where was I? at the time and
the stick figure mother smiles green, flashes red teeth and
waves her long purple hands, and.
Turning over, Daphne
I was paper thin
an avocado stone
set plump on a tripod
over a water dish
my wax body
till I cracked
split to my fat neck
as if liquid
would be the death of me.
Three sticks arrowed my flesh
may have been a thousand
a root began, translucent
tentatived into fluid
from my head, a cotelydon
a pair of young leaves
a stem, more.