Body Tales III: Mirror, Mirror

In Mum’s en-suite
Plush pink carpet under bare feet
It is any day in 1989
I am fifteen
She stands next to me
Close
We stare into the mirror
Simultaneously
She frowns
Every time we do this
Her longer, older face
Is compared and contrasted
To mine:
Round, full and lively Read More

Body Tales II: The Concert

Before the private concert
A stranger’s bedroom
Summer 1997
I’m twenty-three
I’m the musician
The performer
The one to watch
And to hear, hopefully
I zip on silver silk cocktail dress
It fits and it flares
Over my slim roundedness
I like my body
Lovely breasts
Tiny waist
Mum and Dad arrive
An obligatory audience
Mum is always reticent
Ever-present
Ever-jealous
Ever-frowning Read More

Eve’s apple

lips part
press moist
against skin
teeth pierce
submerge, slice
detach
crisp chunk
drawn into
warm mouth
as teeth devour
flesh
firm skin
on curved chunk
plays up and down
knocking, pressing
my tongue
percussively
like yours on mine
hard, decisive mallet
teeth pummel and grind
coax
sweet bursting juices
echoes of yours
in my mouth
and mine

Stuck

Will the mind or the body move first?
Will neither let soften their rigidness, will none express their thirst?
Did I mention – I sit in bed, start each day with good intentions:
one cup of tea turns into two turns into three. Read More

Silence was my muse

Silence was my muse
She kept me bound
Stuffed a ball in my mouth
And covered it with tape
And when she removed them
After quite some time
I was still dead quiet
As I’d always been

Silence was my muse
She didn’t say a peep
She didn’t move a muscle
And being like her
I didn’t either
I stayed frozen and mute
I couldn’t even hear
The sound of my breath
My still-beating heart
Blood ringing in my ears
Good lord, was I dead?

Silence was my muse
But the real problem was
She didn’t say much
She didn’t say anything
I had to lip read
And pray for subtitles
A translator maybe
Some braille or a note
A key to decode
Her silent cypher Read More

Träum(a)rei

Pneumatic drill through concrete
Dirt laid bare and dug
Artefacts uncovered
Shards of buried memories
How deep will they go?

Peeling back onion skin
I catch its flesh with blade
Strip layer back from layer
Each stratum reveals the next
Will I ever reach the core? Read More

Mother’s Day

The blood
Marks me
As a woman incapable
Of mothering
Every moon

Stigmata
On cruciform sanitary pad
Growing stain
Reminding me
Of my irrelevance

I bleed internally
From excess womb
Invisible wound
Evidenced by bloated belly
Looks ripe but is empty

Embattled within
No red cross protects me
From enemy fire
I haemorrhage with ease
And lose credibility