MOTH

An encircled flame the colour of descent

And smelling like pared-down wine, seeks

To nourish all that is devoid of winter warmth. All

But the moth.

The moth is an unfinished creature. A wingless beast

At first, rapidly recursing into primitive

Appeal, then disappearing as an inkblot

On the face of time itself. It is birthed

Of night’s longest hour, the lonely eclipse between

Fissure-laid dawn and the screaming darkness beyond.

When it flies willingly into the nascent arms of death; when,

With the fervour of grass-gilded wind, it tries

To penetrate the glass, it will fail. The moth

Is fed on paper dreams.

WHITE CELLS IN, BLOOD OUT

She had become a sagging creature of dust in the days

We left her there; uneven lips and protruding navel,

A cleaving disgrace to the churn of milk stain mappers

In gleaming uniform. Her voice was a whisper

Lost in the crepe-coloured pages of Balzac, only

To be found again in the plastic mould of a running tap beside.

When she spoke, no one listened. Silence

Is both a well-kept bijou and the damnedest of crooning beasts.

She would die in the unfolding of an esoteric drama, the doctor said

In a paper-crisp accent that matched his wordless coat; pain

Pulsating against the humdrum beat of a ruined fortune. Hers

Was in my hands, greasy with the oil-light

Of years spent decaying. No, it had not been hers.

Now she would never know. That she could have died surrounded

By family, greedy-eyed and waiting for the last, absorbing breath,

Death welcomed like the taste of dissolved sea after seismic dusk. But, perhaps,

This is better.

WHEN THE BABY SLEEPS

If, like black matted crows in a sky of diseased ink,

We killed each other by default; if in the fashion

Of prayers lost in a whirl of unkissed smoke,

We were by changing currents swept away; the mirror

On my bedroom wall would never have been replaced

By rolls of lurid paper. The child is yet asleep.

Through an open window, lonely clouds,

And lonelier dreams, seek morbid company.

I am good enough. I ask for her to be returned,

For a second chance at smouldering lust.

I am mocked, defied. A mother you chose to be , they say,

And a mother you must remain. He lies unaware

Of my treachery, the lies I have woven

Into the life, this bed we share,

A daughter you dreamt of and that I reared. Tell me,

When you see the light in my eyes fade seamlessly into hers, when

You seal her throttled body with an embrace instead of my own,

Do you ever think: is this what I wanted?