Rubbing

11 12 2012

(Published in Roundyhouse vol.35)

There’s a smudge on the page, I’ve noticed,
from when I sketched
you brushing your hair in the long mirror
with your hands.

This isn’t the sheet i drew
the distant seagulls of your sides
or discovered how your tresses grew
in seven, quick months.

Here. Here, is the tip of elbow you scratched
on the hawthorn by the path. Here
the treasure of freckles, roused
from hibernation.

Near the top of the book the binding loosens,
the spine sags, the sketch a memory.
But the graphite flower had been pressed
enough to leave its reflection.

Behind each word you see here
is a grainy rubbing of your shape.
Dip your fingers into the words and feel
how everything is becoming you.





Old Coat

27 10 2012

The scent slid in like evening tide,

familiar as the retriever on the lane,

as remote as linnets in summer grass,

but always it surfaced in the rain.

 

Apples, cinnamon, freesia. Whitebait kissing

bubbles on the surface of the pool.

 

Musk, jasmine, sandalwood. Tortoiseshell wings

flowering from cotton crypts.

 

Citrus, rose, lavender. Gutters giggling

down water in the alleyway.

Always it surfaced in the rain.

 

The trace of the potion was the pocket of a raincoat,

a tissue rested between the dark spaces. Smells

swelling in hibernation.

 

I left our past in the tissue, left the tissue in the coat, left the coat in the cupboard.