swings
the outdoors in
oceans dry
latitude a spine
shoulders to wings
tomorrow today
an open shroud
cumulus low
that pause before
(publised as part of the Burns Night Celebrations in Dumfries, Windaes Project)
If You were Walney Lighthouse and I Cockersands
At dusk we break open the loneliness of night,
hold steady on each muddied tide
and fix ourselves; keepers of light.
The gulls and boats of dawn blot you from sight:
you're far further than The Bay's northside.
But at dusk we break open the loneliness of night.
All I do, you reflect back at me, at times too bright;
a warning sign, you stand a quiet guide,
fix me, keep my light.
My wood, your stone; as such, unalike,
cut by this channel that keeps us tied.
At dusk we break open the loneliness of night.
Closer when water's at its height,
a flooding shoal of silt as shores collide
we fix ourselves; keeping our lights.
Throughout the long dark, we transit white,
our worlds made one: two-eyed
at dusk we break open the loneliness of night
and fix ourselves; keepers of light.
(Published in The Rialto, 2011)
The Sound of Melanin
I know these moles like the back of my hand,
the inside of my thigh. Atolls.
They are, and aren’t, as old.
Distinctive as a face, yet more secret;
they form my intimate geography.
The milky skin surrounding the clods,
in places as smooth as a slack tide, streams
back into itself, again and again —
like sunshine, wind or fear.
Eddies and overfalls can pull
the most cautious boat off course.
Some mounds have faded
into the lisping pull of creases,
making them harder to navigate.
Islands blur, from certain angles,
one brown into another,
disguising the passage between two
to all but the watchful or familiar.
Others rise and breach their harbour walls, crack
like lava suddenly cooling as it meets sea.
Removed, one glistens in absence,
the scar ringing where a pebble was dropped.
Losing a beacon throws all deep water into doubt.
And plenty’s hidden at high tide.
Surf peels. More reefs fizz.
(Published in Washington Square Review, 2011)
