A midsummer night’s dream was where she caught me, I was
better off being a donkey’s head, instead of shouldering the phantasmal grey pressure of a planet. Night
creatures would walk around under her skin for three quarters of the year,
dissolving figures, shadows that would offend
evenly across a board of toast men like summer butter,
for no reason other than the careful and terrified audience of a body with a body.
Grief was quite the same, she wrapped her belly in
hessian before saying her next line
in act three,
jotting between each word, picking them up and placing them down like family silver,
knocking her head against the side of a ship the breadth of my father’s ribcage,
low and easy gutsy moans moo
mooed, grass fed and
nourished, on her knees, in the unfinished set of a sweet meadow
or dry barn.
People will ask me about a tv show in the nineties
quick to
run their hands above the
static of my skin
trusting the two-d character,
underestimating my potential for disappointment. However many
versions I will tell you,
wait until you hold the
xray image up to the light and pull out
you’re teeth, add them to the seat rows of a child’s coat
zip.