Spinning why doesn’t it move

If I jump up and

Why aren’t I dizzy . . .?’

A stray sunshot caught

Her heart.

She would call it

Brain-strolling or mind-walking,

Said he’d walk into church

One day and say,

‘Why is God not here?’

On receiving a stiff reply,

He’d look at the cross and say,

‘Well, he doesn’t have to hang about like that.

He can have my seat.’

2

A stray sunshot bled into

His heart.

Welled in his chest,

Crept up the inside of his eyelids,

Curdled through his whip-like lashes,

Down the bright brown bony cheeks.

He had run till his breath

Was almost too far ahead of him.

He had run till his heartbeat

Had overtaken his pounding feet,

Till the rustle of the trees

Had taken his breath,

Till the squawk of a magpie

Had overtaken the rustle of the trees,

Till the rattle of the keys

Had overtaken the squawk of a magpie.

He had run till his breath

Was almost too far ahead of him.

It filled the kitchen, and his mother

Listened to it counting

Four hundred years

Of panting.

She heard her

Grandfather in him,

Her grandmother’s wheeze,

Her father’s defiance,

Her husband’s private sobbing

At being broken.

She listened until

The room was filled with spirits

Ricocheting from wall to wall,

Cradled in the sink

Dripping from the ceiling.

Clinging to their necks like weak motherless children . . .

Here was a question he would ask them,

And it would twist their bodies each time.

For My Headstone

For My Headstone

Here is the death of the son you never had,

The hand you never touched,

The face you never stroked.

Here is the morning after,

His bruises you never tended,

The laughter you never shared.

And here are the tears he’ll never feel,

Your eyes he’ll never see,

Whispers he’ll never hear.

The apologies

Will squirm in his coffin

With the letters you never wrote.

Love Poem

Love Poem

You remind me,

Define me,

Incline me.

If you died

I’d.

Flowers in the Kitchen

Flowers in the Kitchen

On buying her flowers

She said,

‘There’s no food in the kitchen

And we can’t eat flowers.’

On buying her food

She said,

‘You don’t buy flowers any more.’

Suitcases and Muddy Parks

Suitcases and Muddy Parks

You say I am a lying child.

I say I’m not.

You say there you go again.

You say I am a rebellious child.

I say no, I’m not.

You say there you go again.

Quite frankly, Mum,

I’ve never seen a rebellious child before.

And when my mates said,

Jump in that puddle and race you through the park

(y’know the muddy one),

I didn’t think about the mud.

When you said why are you dirty?!

I could feel the anger in your voice.

I still don’t know why.