Hoarding stacks of cassettes for the sound of our
burgeoning darkness I dreamt of Wordsworth
on the English crags his voice like a boom
I wanted his visionary mind so sick of my own
the way these cells don’t grow and I’m stuck
out of love without knowing the old
folks water their plants every day I miss the bluebells
and the yellow narcissi lining the shore of Millport
there’s an old shipyard out there with gongs
of saltwater sound and scratchings of rust
I could lick all that metal to feel better
lacking iron I’m a bit mad not pregnant but it’s fine
as the way we waited for the ferry all March-like
and mild we missed the last train I craved
hot chocolate I wanted to rip out my womb he told me
he’d visit I wished he did there isn’t much more
to our life than this I served strangers all day
for pitiful money it was enough then to do
the basics to lie in the park in the sun
almost happy with my body the green was bright
and I miss it more I don’t think we’ll ever
write again get together there’s just
something in the way the brush scours
the roots of my hair I wish it was his fingers
electric and sparkling I lie in my bed
as if paralysed I don’t care anymore for
coffee or oranges or the sad sweet smell
of summer gloamings I want a recipe for
filling the emptiness this is past and present
together what’s the difference I think there’s
a cloud for the future he declared
the sky is blue because of different kinds of darkness
filling the void behind it I want
to find that space its blueness and fire
like an ocean my heart illuminates the lack
and turns with the moon into everything.
[Maria Sledmere]
qmunicatemagazine.co.uk 