Real

Every second there’s a death of self,

a death of the people we were

a second ago

and a line of ghost selves stretch out

behind as we surge forward,

or ahead as we fall back.

When we stop and breathe

in the present,

all the shades, of our children,

parents, teachers and friends

are forever gone,

were never there,

and nor were we.

Homecoming

I wrote this in my thirties, having woken up with this beautiful dream. I had been searching for myself, not yet having found her, and this was the beginning.

A child came to live with us.

I was married with three children

when she arrived,

a small, dark girl,

with knotted hair and

vague features.

All I knew was that

she had not received

the right sort of care.

With a gentle invitation,

I bathed her in gentle soapy bubbles,

luxurious warmth for her pale smooth skin,

shampooed with even, circular movements,

the knots and stickiness from her hair

and conditioned the neglected lengths;

when we had done,

it free-fell, snaking

liquid glossy down her back.

When it dried

it was tumbling and healthy,

alive with movement and

vibrant chestnut tones

catching the light every way.

Her paleness gave way

to a rosy glow.

I took the boxes of dressing-up clothes

from under my bed.

Rumpled, twisted armfuls

of fairy dresses, wire wings

with sparkles, sequins, colours

of pink and purple and

eggshell blue,

long drapes and scarves

from Japan, caresses of

satin gliding over the skin.

She stood, watchfully

silent while I dressed her,

picking out the items

with care.

She lifted her arms

while I slid a fairy dress

over her shoulders and

enveloped her in sparkles.

I led her to the mirror,

her warm hand

snug and safe in mine.

She stood, shyly in contemplation,

then smiled with trusting satisfaction.

In the warmth of our bed,

she lay facing away,

snuggled in close and curled

until, overwhelmed,

I began to silently cry.

Then gradually

we merged in tears,

becoming one,

and I awoke,

lying on my damp pillow,

my husband sleeping next to me in

the early morning hush.

Outside were the first crimson streaks

of a dawning winter day.

Woman in Adultery

Trigger warning: A poem written during a time of despair, this explores themes of religious judgment, condemnation, gender inequity and divine forgiveness. Not a morning cuppa kind of read as it’s visceral and violent.

The inevitable judgment descends.

Voices in the corridor outside.

Her lover melts into the background.

He will never feel the full weight of condemnation,

 an unfettered, liberally raised male.

The door busts open, battered by blood-lust,

hateful hands grasp the soft skin of her upper arms.

Sobbing, she stumbles down the muted hotel corridors.

‘Take her to that Jesus of Nazareth’. 

‘Yeah, he’ll have to condemn her. 

Him with all his forgiveness;

he’ll have to acknowledge The Law.

She’s guilty and she even knows it. 

Look at her, snotting and snivelling’. 

Tart.  Liar.  Bitch. 

She doesn’t know Christ, she’s never known him.

He died the death that we deserve, they said.

Stretched flesh hung in toe-curling agony,

blotched, weeping face like an over-ripe plum,

a scorching suffocation,

solemnly described every Sunday.

‘This is his body, broken for us.’

‘This is his blood, spilled in our stead.’

And now they’re dragging her along the street…..

Dad once said he’d break her neck.

Now they’re going to break her bones.

She’s seen others, floppy limbed,

brains spilling out on the sand.

Smashing tearing chunks of skin and hair,

and after that, the God

who’d turn his face away:

‘Depart from me, I never knew you’.

Waking up cold with sweat,

Stumbling through darkness to the bathroom,

giddy with the magnitude of nothingness.

A doctrine of violence,

of slaughtered firstborn sons, youths killed by bears,

milk-mouthed,  peachy-headed babies

 ripped from their mothers’ breasts

and skewered by marauding warriors at the Lord’s command.

A gaping eternity of flame that tortures but does not consume.

As a child, padding through darkness

 every night to make sure

Mummy and Daddy

hadn’t been Raptured away

in the twinkling of an eye.

What about Christ?

Sitting calmly there in the sand,

he turns  from conversation.

Thrown to the floor she waits,

naked, miniscule.

They tower above her.

She never was the same as them.

Now they’ve got her and they’re

going to do what they should have done

years ago –

bury her to the neck in the sand.

Her head will be tiny and trapped and

unable to twist or turn any more

they will snuff her out,

til all that’s left is a broken skull

and a mess for the vultures to clean up. 

Quite right, too.

Now just a matter of time.

A lifetime.

She hears their voices staccato sharp.

Jesus, drawing in the sand.

The crowd are silenced.

 ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone’.

……………………………………………

Too many fuckers forgot.

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