Romantic notions

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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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Rock and cement


 
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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Rock face


 
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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This little thing


 
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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Souvenirs


 
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


 
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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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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The morning after

The morning after the full moon
there are seagulls everywhere
and crickets cling to the breeze.

The trees are alive with feathered song,
and somewhere far away where I cannot see
a cuckoo speaks.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Bikini Bottoms

Below, a pair of fluorescent pants
lie discarded on the pavement –

swept by an errant breeze
that seeks to make an impact
on a city distracted by the heat.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Tree Monkey

In summer, the tax nomads come to town,
rich from their time at sea.

I watch as they fill my favourite places
swapping one form of confinement for another.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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