Issue 11: November 2005

Lara Frankena | Sandra Greaves | Jen Hadfield | David Hale | Paul Perry | Philip Wilson

SANDRA GREAVES

The Master Cutter's Wife

That diamond-dusted blade should make its cut
in my soft flesh. Then with my dazzling wounds
perhaps I'd seem as flawless as the stones
your knife caresses as it binds the light.
But I would still be nothing when my blood
ran hot. For you the only thing that shines
is the cold geometry of the planet's bones,
harder than despair, older than God.

But I'm of stronger stuff. The antidote
lies in the jewel box I used to shun
when you were kinder. This time I won't fail.
I'll drape these stardust fists about my throat,
become your reliquary, your dark sun,
and take you, lit by all the fires of hell.

 

Please Remember To Wash Your Hands

There are wolf thickets.
There are culverts full of bears.
There are alpine hares
that were lost children.

Do not talk to strangers.
Do not cross the road.
Make a ring of fire.
Do not play with matches.

There are migrant birds
that shouldn't be here.
There are people listening.
There are ill considered
consequences. There are
no answers to your liking.

There are precautions
you can take. Switch off
the lights. Remove
sharp objects on entering
the liferaft. Suck fish eyes
to stave off thirst.

There are many things
that do not come alive
except in the small hours
before the day makes it.

Wolf thickets.
Half silences.
The distance
between lovers.

 

The Fight

Suddenly we were unravelling. I don't
remember why, only the blur of hurt
and the clear thought, let the last skein run
through my unringed fingers. It was strange,
a glimpse beyond the place I knew, beyond
the mountain at the end of the back garden,
and I saw it in you too, that swift look past
our love, our life. And for a moment I
wavered, yes, I could let go, it wouldn't
be so hard. Then I was truly afraid,
how easy to destroy, easy as falling
in love, but we couldn't stop, we were
bewildered, frantic, every path we took
became a drover's road, ancient and bitter,
forcing us to follow the turns we knew
and did not want but kept on repeating,
hating each step. Hurt was where we were,
the way back was hidden, and the birds
had eaten every crumb. At last, exhausted,
bloodied, parched, punch drunk, we crawled
to bed. Oh sweet, you opened your arms to me
like water. Like unconditional love.

 

Sandra Greaves was born in Edinburgh and now lives in London.
These are the first poems she has published.