Poetry

New Bedroom

On the return, we knew that the sun
waking us at 05:30 wouldn’t cut it.
The heat traced across our faces 
gave us headaches.
The bed was too low and when I’m bigger 
the rush to the loo would become a danger,
so we switched rooms


to somewhere dimmer and cooler, a little less bright,
where I could shuffle to relief in the night.
With peeling white walls and slat wardrobe doors
and slat blinds with knotty pulley chords.
The floor, just visible around the wedge of the bed,
will need muscle memory to navigate


and soon sleep strained through lumps
in the mattress will be slept strictly sideways.
On waking, only the back of your head or your eyebrows
will be visible, and I will smile.
In the middle of the night, when we are unaware,
your deeper grumble-snore will be the metronome
that we, the three of us, will breathe to.
Poetry

Butterfly

The idea comes to her one morning as she brushes her teeth. A red cloud creeps across her eye, nudges the iris and stills. The fifty percent increase in blood that rushes around claustrophobic organs is now evident in the mirror, in her eye, and the drop caught between conjunctiva and sclera will tumble through many colours before it fades in two weeks’ time.

As a lepidopterist sets a surplus specimen in resin on his day off, he is sure that it is for how the light scatters on the scales and the thought of wings that watch the viewer, which sells what he finds at the bottom of the enclosure every couple of days.

She holds her purchase in both hands, larger than she expected. She thinks of melanin. Of how, in recent months, stares bypass her near-translucent skin, her layers of fat and muscle, to mix palettes of beige, brown and cream. Match these with shades for eyes and hair. She does not wrap the gift or wait for her partner to come home, but instead hangs it in the window for him (and everyone else) to see. The colours shift from blue to green to yellow and reflect onto her cheek. Those little legs will never stretch out again, the wings never flutter off the glass. The air around her becomes viscose, hardens under the glance of a passer-by.

The butterfly was dead anyway. Her foetus turns in utero.