(but all I think of is the discounted sunscreen I’ve bought,
whether it will be effective in shielding you from the heat of
anger, fear, contempt, love, pride and shame.)
dry chamomile grinds between my toes
passing the skin of a goat hung proud
air perfumed by fresh leeks
stirred in warm water by an ancestor’s hand
a dead tongue refutes you
r claim to landed purity
with the pound of flesh
flush with the want of salt
When the memories flood through her skin
like milk – when you pour it into porridge,
Her world melts.
Listening to X only after he’s dead
Capitalising on vintage Woolworths’ plastic bags
Remixing washed out lo-fi vinyls from Savers
I took aim, and released.
Mushroom clouds snapped apart;
a wafer-thin crunch,
a child treading on dry leaves,
dust gliding aimlessly against light.