Tag Archives: observation

This little thing

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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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Rhyme or reason

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The season swells and bodies used to winter turn pink then red, taking over streets that were previously empty. I learn to avoid the old town and it’s narrow alleyways, the parade of shops, the line of restaurants and cafés. Life changes; my routine evolves and I embrace summer as I could not those colder months, when my body tight and defensive.

And then my cacti die, deserting me suddenly at a time when I need more than anything to feel like a mother. And even though I switch my attention to candles and crystals, which can only melt or crack, they do not fill the gap that life has created.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Souvenirs

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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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Broken Things

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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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Traffic

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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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Stuck

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Sometimes, spoken things have more potency than one desires;
said “spoken” things hurting, cutting, impaling,
creating wounds and drawing blood.

Sometimes was today,
and yesterday and the day before that,
and the wounds are still bleeding red.

Unresolved, open-ended,
party to a conversation part-done:
there is no moving on or away from.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Frogging 

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Gut raw.
Bleeding emotions.
Avoiding interaction, just in case.

Feeling the aftermath of a night spent
spinning and dancing,
twisting to avoid colliding

with unpleasant things
like heat and rage
and a body invested in self-destruction,

unpicking and undoing
everything
that time and love hath made.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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House of the double-headed ax

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The peace of an outdoor cafe
is like the medicine of a cool breeze to my mind,
blowing away monsters and cobwebs,
breathing life through month-shut windows,
opening closed wide.

Outstretched and uncurled,
my legs relax –
releasing my body,
leading my limbs…

away from the tight dark centre,
the labyrinth eye –

so that they might return to whence they came
way back in the beginning,
when day was day
and night was night.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Timeout

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Morning sunlight squeezing through shade.
A gentle breeze crisscrossing the table.
You and me sat ever so slightly apart

dissecting each other’s lives
over sleeping phones,
motionless keys
and the whisper of today’s paper.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Grunt Work

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A generator’s purr
removes crickets and cars
and a man with a back bum
tears up the landscape.

I watch small children dancing
without making a noise,
and chase after lifelike toys
that scamper around on twig legs.

by Rebecca L. Atherton
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