I collect odd shoes, pay pennies
at jumble sales, gather them
from roadsides, the high-tide line.
Old boots, sandals, trainers, lace-ups,
pumps, stilettos. All single.
I lay them side by side by size,
baby’s knitted bootie to workman’s boot,
see them scuffed and empty.
I reread the recipe, reclassify
by material, fraying fabric, split plastic,
shrivelled leather seasoned with sea salt.
I dissect the animal skin, discard cloth
and metal, broken heels and laces,
pour a gallon of water, stir sugar
and yeast, drop one shoe
after another into the bucket.
The fermenting leather retraces itself.
Escaping bubbles carry away the bitterness
of uphill paths, roads not taken,
lost races, missed goals, unnoticed
first steps and abandoned last dances.
I sip the wine, swallowing summer
holiday sweetness, hopscotch,
skipping, paddling, wading
through waist-high wheat.
I siphon forgotten footsteps
into green glass, saving them
for when I need to just sit.
Little black dress
The morning after, it threads through her
day. She sees spaghetti straps tangle
in the silhouette of trees, satin shimmers
on the rain-slick pavement, a hemline
skirts the street between telegraph poles.
On the tube, a stranger brushing past
sends her back to when it slithered
over her skin. She can still feel its touch,
longs to be home sliding into darkness.
She runs her hands over the seams,
feels fingers interlace with hers and lips
rest against her neck. Each night
she is caught – held close
until it falls into shadow on her bones.
The spoils of war
Fingers, feet, vertebrae. I count them all
into this body – it’s down to numbers.
I close my eyes, imprint form and flesh
past the curve of you.
It’s been weeks since I’ve seen the ground
as my belly stretched to fit the way you curl yourself around,
swell to fill me, with the angles of your limbs
projecting through my skin. I felt you
grow, divide, survive. I’m
sculpting you with each breath, willing every cell:
one two three four.
My hands and I count
pulses through skin, resonating with
heartbeats – yours
shakes me at the edge of sleep. I’m split by
your violent arrival.
Your violent arrival
shakes me. At the edge of sleep I’m split by
heartbeats, yours
pulses through skin, resonating with
my hands. And I count
one two three four,
sculpting you with each breath, willing every cell
grow, divide, survive. I’m
projecting through my skin – I felt you
swell to fill me with the angles of your limbs
as my belly stretched to fit. The way you curl yourself around
it’s been weeks since I’ve seen the ground
past the curve of you.
I close my eyes, imprint form and flesh
into this body. It’s down to numbers:
fingers, feet, vertebrae – I count them all.
Doctors in the Iraqi city of Fallujah are reporting a high level of birth defects, with some blaming weapons used by the US after the Iraq invasion. BBC News 4th March 2010
