LARDING

for SM

my knitting's knotted
stiff itchy wool
into chaotic bows
of colour clash
about my needle's
cold metal electrodes
that clitter-clack
with typewriter efficiency
untangling the yarn
from a misfitting cardigan
they spun to stiffness
unspooled like chevelled VHS
as they stitch and purl
out of sudden looseness
rough patchwork
that narrates
old neural pathways

See the original here

KICKED IN THE HEAD BY A HORSE

i.m. IT

A police horse. Horseshoes. Metal. A riot helmet. Hooves.
Knock, knock. Broken jaw. Fetlock. Mane. A splintered fibula.
Minor injuries. Bruises. A booted shin. Accident & Emergency.
Temporary loss of vision. Stroke. Strike. A heart attack.
Knock. Shattered humerus. Who's there? POLICE. A bust Yale lock.
Fingers in a door jamb. A fat lip. Torn eyelid. Lesions.
These are polished heroes on parade. Medals. The door on the chain.
Community trust award. Shield. Riot squad. Boots. Stampede.
Bust. A police horse. Halter. Stirrup. Bit. Neck. Reins. Noose.

INTEMPERANCE AND BUSINESS TROUBLE

In The City, sunlight turns the air to melted ice-cream
sending city bankers to the ale house for their lunch
to souse the fires with Staropramen. Thermometers pop
at the sound of the trading bell and seeping buboes 
weep in the underarms of short sleeved linen shirts.

This one, three sheets gone, makes a gamble he can drink
the afternoon dry. The afternoon responds with rain.

SURFBOARDS

I was feeling worried about my FAS daughter 
and went into a greenhouse to buy myself a plant 
(healthier than eating chocolates). I was feeling worried about 
whether or not this was an ectopic. 
I was feeling worried about her and wanted to look. 
I was feeling worried about it, and I asked my friend 
to give me a couple of days to think about it. 
I was feeling worried about my man's healing, 
in fact I was feeling darned anxious. I was feeling worried about the baby, 
Maggie suggested that some acupuncture might be a good idea 
to encourage labour. I was feeling worried about overstepping 
the client/therapist relationship, and I do get bothered 
about doing the wrong thing. I was feeling worried about the whole thing,
but now I've read up a bit about having twins 
and spoken to a few people about having twins. 
I was feeling worried about there can be mistake, 
am I doing perfectly, making everything informational 
and reading with expression? I was feeling worried about 
letting my guard down to a stranger.
I was feeling worried about her 'cause she didn't have
a whole lot of words until quite a bit later
than a lot of other tykes her age, but then she suddenly caught up
and with gusto. I was feeling worried about
my French dictee homework because for whatever reason
tonight I just cannot comprehend half the words
and then I looked up the grading in the syllabus
and homework only counts for 2%. I was feeling worried about
my future or isolated from my friends
I was feeling worried about the jogs. I was feeling worried about
having too many celebrations. I was feeling worried about them.
I was feeling worried about my sister, Finley, so Katy
let me surf the internet to find out how she was.

THE RAISING OF LAZARUS

after Van Gogh

A difficult rebirth. The body
still bound in the cave, unreturned
to the sunlight and drowned
in linens. His skin, waxed
with burial oils, is greyed,
more in tone with the walls
of the tomb than the fields of corn
outside. But it is the empty eyes
where the true horror lies.
Lazarus is dead and alive. The sister,
Martha, throws her arms up, just 
as distressed as praising. 
Does she welcome her brother 
out to the dawn or attempt  
to keep the madness in?
What is she scared of? Knowledge?
If death isn't final then all bets
are off. Is she ashamed or annoyed?
She forked out good money
to put him to rest. She grieved,
Had begun to get used
to not carrying after him. Now 
Lazarus has returned and not.
Life does not fill easily
the liquid flesh. He looks like work.
A monster. The neighbours will talk.

Some think the artist is present,
that the face on the corpse
is his own. That he is warming
himself from the Saint–Paul asylum
for a second life. But he does
not return to the sunflowers fully.
The body seems uncertain
of its ability to stand. It brings
us to Mary, who stands in the shadows,
her back to the viewer, seemingly
wearing the tomb. She who prayed,
who sent for jesus to save
her brother, only for him to arrive
too late. Where is he now?
The Messiah? His absence is genius.
A reminder that miracles
outlive the miraculous. A sister
enslaved to her brother. Another
unsure of what she's done,
retreating and reaching a little
for this simulacrum. This Lazarus
come back from the dead.