Shhhhhh little bird,
don’t say a word;
the sun has risen
and the black bird is awake.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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In summer my hair has
only one style: back.
And if it weren’t for winter,
I’d chop it off entirely.
That, twinned with the fact that
every time I mention it
my boyfriend pulls a face,
strong enough to put me off.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Searching for home in a world full of motion –
shapes constantly shifting,
people and spaces milling, spilling, moving around;
loud,
noisy,
fast-paced –
my hands paw at the intangible,
looking for connection inside
solid structures like rock and cement.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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All she wants is for the man inside to show up –
not as a child or as a petulant teenager,
angry at the world and at her –
but as an adult, as himself.
A bit of compassion,
kindness…
mindfulness and presence,
would also be nice.
And yet…
living inside his stone fortress,
imprisoned inside layer upon layer of himself,
he watches but cannot not act.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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At 40 degrees,
the temperature is oppressive.
Standing in the pool,
lengths requiring more
than I can willingly recall,
I wonder whether I ought to
sink or swim?
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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First she saw the orange wheelbarrow
and was drawn towards that,
and then she noticed the orange scarecrow
and instead wanted that.
And when, on her birthday
she opened first the orange
and then the green,
it finally all made sense
because orange was the colour of sensuality
and a newfound enjoyment for life
and green was the colour of healing
necessary to awaken that.
So she placed them outside on either side
of her small but perfectly proportioned garden
to watch over her and encourage her
while she slowly remembered what it used to be like.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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I expand on the outside
as she grows within:
this little thing,
no bigger than an aubergine.
Tomorrow, she will be a baked potato.
Next week, a marrow perhaps?
I wonder what she’ll be like
when she comes out
and if she’ll look like my cat,
who has sat on top of her for days
keeping a tab on the various ways
I am changing.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Visiting a cafe to work,
I sit next to a couple with a dog,
accidentally spilling milk in my lap.
At home, I discover a circular stain
spread out over one knee
into which several white dog hairs have stuck.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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There’s a hole in my stomach
that’s miles deep,
and a pain in my chest that feels like
something precious is unravelling.
I pull at the layers of flesh and skin
to reveal their true nature,
discovering a pit of molten fire
devouring a mound of wool.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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In the old town, it’s too busy to walk
and I have to concentrate to avoid tripping.
Shopping takes me an extra hour
and when I’m done, my back is tight.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Rebecca L. Atherton 