When I am so trapped
That my heart flees to my stomach
To avoid what beats behind my ribs
I indulge in unreal fears instead.
Poetry
i ask
do not let me
forget the ocean.
for years
I may drown in grey buildings
and lose myself in tides of strangers
but may I always remember these things:
water, soft and cold
the danger of blueness
salt in my mouth
hard stones beneath my feet
clinging seaweed
and a constant shore.
witch
I reach for magic, always. Continue reading
happy birthday
today is your birthday again
a thing i always forget until
it crashes into me
the last day of january
a surprise of sadness
a pit in my chest
that forces me to think of
you in your chair reading
the sun shining
on your tatty jumper
i stand in my own memory
and watch you breathe quietly
in a place and time
that only i remember
with a special loneliness
a habit
[TW: mentions of blood, self-harm]
small poems
I would like to smell of oranges
riches
My hands grow heavy with the emotions of others.
Hands
I think a lot about his hands
And how safe they used to seem.
I know they must have been only average;
That they were probably just
Anyone’s well-used gardening hands
Anyone’s precise historian hands
Anyone’s comforting parental hands.
Large, thick-fingered, strong hands
With neat nails and calluses
Occasional plasters and bumpy veins;
Hands that made art and grew plants
Often smudged with paint, ink, dirt.
They pushed me on swings
Dangled me in the sea
Helped me down from trees
And, much later
Drove me home while I cried, drunk.
When I think ‘My father loved me’
I mean that he was able to hold me
And let me go, simultaneously:
The everyday magic of his hands.
Morning poems
This morning is golden.
After venting all night
The sky smiles on me
And every tree reflects joy.
For this short time, I am truly myself –
Full of peace; alone.
*
This is a grey morning, and the rain is hard;
My eyes are colourless.
Everything in me is slower than usual.
I try to remember blue skies
And cannot.
*
This morning, and the one before
And the one before
Is heavy and unhopeful.
The sun has hidden itself from me
So I surround myself with walls.
It rains indoors.
a story about my father
Once upon a time
We went on one of our adventures
Scarborough, Bridlington
Filey or Flamborough –
Somewhere with sand
And greenish blueish northern sea.
The beach was full of things to discover
But the tides trapped us:
We started to return
And found the waves had met the rocks first
Stranding us in a horseshoe of stone.
To the left, the sea.
To the right
Ahead and behind us
The cliff.
You went up first
Plastic bag of food in hand
Showing me a trail to safety
Probably made only for goats.
I followed anyway
Sometimes on my hands and knees
Eyes up, determined to be brave
Like you.
You never crawled
You didn’t fear the drop.
I remember, vividly
Balancing on a path no wider than my foot
The cliff dropping away on both sides
And I was too stubborn to call for you
Too frightened to distract you –
What if you fell?
Anyway, we made it.
I think I held your hand in relief
And we laughed the laugh of avoiding death
And on the drive home, we agreed
Never to tell my mother.
Black Fem Geekery 