When I was three or four, I buried / Several hard-gained marbles / Near our rented room, hoping one day / They would grow into magic trees
Who knew inside any accident is a poem: You can watch
in slow-motion the stone cracking, the syllables breaking.
Caroline waited a week before going back to the house. She was afraid to go back, not because she was afraid she would see Red, but because she was afraid she wouldn’t see him.
One day your mummy and I looked in and found the cat sitting on your chest. The demon Purr was bent over, its mouth close to yours. Here was superstition in the flesh, and we prayed it would suck the breath from your body. We swayed to the enchanted scene, sung silently: “Asphyxiate! Suffocate!”
Stretch me over / the Inquisition rack / of ribs, tighten at / one end, my bones // pop and crack / at the other. I’m / strung out on your /syllables
An investigation into the symbolic systems that surround Love, the calcified expectations and traditions and dialectics that were established long before we all arrive here.