It starts with the nails,
The beds turning
Periwinkle, robin’s egg.
A shimmer of silver
Dusting, for years
The absorptive skin.
(the dark darker)
(and hands, and legs)
As long as skin is skin.
A poem of mine has been published in the Spring edition of Blood & Bourbon, a kick-ass publication out of Toronto that you should all read regardless.
My contribution is Bill, one of the nearer poems to my heart. You can purchase a copy from the link above, or you can read it for free via various digital platforms.
So please check it out.
Most dreams are not unobtainable,
They’re just exclusive –
Yes, you can
Be a firefighter
Scale a mountain
Travel to Chile, Greece, Antarctica and back
But don’t expect the bath to still be warm
Don’t expect the silver undisturbed
Don’t expect the dogs to bark the same,
When your sainted feet become mundane again
Two poems of mine, Hand (There is a man in China/With one of his hands attached/To one of his ankles by thread) and Phase (We are in a transition period/The body reaching the point of rot) will be part of the flock at Thirteen Myna Birds this month.
If you have enjoyed what I’ve written here, you may enjoy these.
The more we sign our names,
The less like our names it looks.
As if, when older, the mere act
Of being ourselves were
Too much effort,
The creative loops and
Pride of clarity from our first,
Nothing left but vague
Scribbling, for necessity’s sake.
It is possible to feel
In shoes made of concrete/pixel neon/unsourced
Metal, if you drift, quiet,
On social updrafts –
Promises accepted, hope in small bottles
Like cats’ whiskers, or built-in
I dreamt of crystals last night,
Hard-clasped to banish clouds,
And in that magic fear
Rustled soft wings.