Waiting
The
neighbours are outside almost fighting -
I can
feel it coming out of their skin,
Lining
the air.
I gamble
in my mind
Who is
going to push or punch first.
I hear a
sound.
I want
something bad to happen.
When I
have a sore ear
I want
them to tell me
It's a
burst eardrum -
A baby
bomb detonated in my head.
This is
all because later on there is
Only me
Sitting
in the downstairs room
Waiting
for the neighbours to fight -
For
something to happen.
Sorry for your Loss
They told
me he was lost -
Like keys.
My mother
trying to remember the last jangle
Before
she placed them down.
Forgot
where she put him.
I was
angry she could be so careless.
I wasn’t
even allowed to take something to the shop
In case I
lost it.
I started
looking under beds for him,
Round the
back of the shed,
The linen
cupboard.
I
wandered through the front door
Searching
for him.
She would
always find me -
Arms limp
at my sides
Like
broken stalks.
She
guided me back indoors.
Apologised
to family and friends
By
telling them -
She’s just so lost.
Can’t Stop Pulling at Hairs
My head
has a slight bald patch now
The size
of sliced cucumber.
Just
behind the right ear where no one can really see it -
Right for spite.
I’ve
twisted my pubes into coarse plaits
So the
skin bubbles up at the root
Like pink
molehills, craters of acne scars.
I’ve
rubbed them between my fingers
Until
they are asphalt rough,
Fossilised
worms.
I want to
be bald,
A
hairless new born,
Re enter
the world
Gloriously
smooth
With
nothing to pull or pick at.
With hand
eye coordination not developed
Like me,
embryonic.
Wildfires
They
don’t seem wild anymore these wildfires.
For
something to be wild it feels as if
It should
be rare.
To see
the wild animals
And to
live near wilderness
Should be
a rarity.
I am
waiting for the bushes outside my house
To flare
up; wildy.
…
I could
do it myself
Burn them
to the ground.
I could
do the whole neighbourhood
And that
one act of
Ordinary
to wild
Would
conjure pondering,
Draw
attention
More than
these
Wildfires.
Things With No Owners
A book of stamps, one peeled away
Like part of a satsuma.
I wonder if she knew
That the stamps would outlive her.
It could have been anything,
The twenty pence piece that had slipped through
The bag’s shoddy lining.
Did a shiver run down her spine?
As the shop girl handed it to her
Crumpled in the receipt.
A modest shining gift,
Dropped in the bag.
Falling into the unsewn cavity.
Lost objects.
Things with no owners.
Charlotte Cosgrove is a poet and teacher from Liverpool, England. She is published in Trouvaille Review, Dreich, Beyond Words, The Literary Yard and a Wingless Dreamer anthology. She has work forthcoming in Confingo, Amethyst magazine, The Broadkill Review, Words and Whispers, Sledgehammer and New Contexts 2: an anthology. Charlotte was recently shortlisted for the Julian Lennon poetry prize and has been shortlisted (awaiting results) for the Loft Books poetry prize and short story prize. She is Editor of Rough Diamond Poetry Journal.
Love them
ReplyDelete