oh, i could tell it so many ways.
with him barely
sipping the pale air
it is the day the spiders hatched.
you will not find it by name or number.
once more with feeling:
[bellowing] you do not have to be good
branta came that night. paddled right up beside her in a tree-trunk canoe, offering a name.
on windy days the sea-wives would be busy with the boats, endlessly working ropes and sails. the woman learned to be useful.
on the calmer days they would rest.
«mother doesn’t give a shit.»
the woman brushed the wet sand from her dress. the pair walked on in silence
the woman walked south
along the high cliff path
one day the woman awoke
i dreamed my name
i dreamed my mother
i dreamed i was a rotting log
the woman remembered
the swivel of shod hooves on the dusty road,
once there was a woman who lived alone
they hadn't spoken in 40 years.
he had always been gifted at sports of all kinds /
we are drunk for the first time
in the foothills
of cadair idris
fresh out of school where for five years they called us lemons
they come to me for the stupidest things.
sea, ever changing, ever constant.
what do you know about mother?
you cannot know mother.
"Mooooooon!" Earth would call up into the darkness. "Gealllaaaach! Come down here and talk with me, for I long for a sister who understands me, and I feel you could be the one."
Linoprint and birthday poem for Em