UndoneDay falls facedown at the sleek feet of night, We copy them; I kiss up your bare legs, And know I am coming undone faster Than the sly ladder in your thrown-off tights.Undone
Later, next door, you are a wall’s width near, My husband’s chest hair rises as he sings Cupid’s worn out song, and for my response, I lie with him, “And I love you my dear.”
Middlemarch, MiddledecemberIt happened in bed this morningMiddlemarch, Middledecember
with Middlemarch propped on my chest. I was tightly curling my toes, excited in the knowledge that, once this mammoth was slain, I can casually say “oh, I’ve read Middlemarch”.
Through a small chink in my curtains I could see an oak being blown
and bullied by the Winter wind. It’s Christmas just five days from now, unlikely be a white one. I stare back at the page and feign intelligence.
My ear is resting near the wall - A male voice breaks George’s sentence: ‘Ha-ll
EdinburghAn old, proud man with hotch-potch veins of tricky cobbles and peeling black railings is sprawled out on the sandstone, stone drunk. His ear: a cold phonebox; metallic, empty smell. His arms: a random array of crude, greening tattooes. His head: Rangers losing to Hearts again – furious. He smells of rich tobacco, and the warm leather of the ripped red bus seats as I catch the 42 home. My teeth jangle on the rail, the taste of 50ps. Postcard stands, garish woollen shops, curious tourist voices and whitteringEdinburgh
The BargeMy hands are sweating,The Barge
this chair is uncomfortable, and the woman in front needs to re-do her roots.
I stare at the miniature whirlpool of silver hair on the back of her bowed head: a tiny circle of skin. The chair back gently hugs her woollen cardigan.
But even my intense staring cannot completely erase the niggling movement of a hunched man advancing through the rows. Snake in a maze. Genesis to Revelation. All beginnings have an end. All roads lead to Rome - and this elder will inevitably, eventually, posit communion wine on me.
Why me God,
