Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash
Your pattern pinned itself to the fray of me
the first day. Not yet stitched, aligning
fragile tissue, judging bias - the wounded
always holding their breath.
When they remade you, I slept
on a hospital couch with your dress, bundled
like a woolen heart, to my nose. Five hours
a short time to outfit a whole woman
into her own dear self.
We tied knots with every colour we could find.
Understand, love always gets down to the wisp
beyond fabric, to stroke
the finest thread of a person - our making looms
us legacies of holes -
you fear cutting yourself short, me
born running with scissors, and all of us
rippling fast towards the great unravelling
Yet the great thumping treadle of a heart can still say
now you’re mending - billow with the wind.
~ Ankh Spice
Morning splits a faint pink line, gulls horning
the sky’s mouth wider
you still sandflea, curled greedy around sleep
hoarding empty shells, bonfired, and me still full
of yesterday. Old devourings forgotten, my hands rough-memory
for new shucked jewels – yours atop mine with their knack
stab – twist – crack
A careful blade gentles in before you know you’re harvested. I have woken
glistening jelly, fresh-seen -
open to the cool brine of a new day
~ Ankh Spice
Ankh Spice is a sea-obsessed poet from Aotearoa / New Zealand, who really does believe that narrative can change the world. He has recent work published in Black Bough Poetry, Burning House Press, and Pixel Heart Magazine, and upcoming poems in Moonchild Magazine, The Failure Baler, and others. You can find him on Twitter @SeaGoatScreams or on Facebook @AnkhSpiceSeaGoatScreamsPoetry.