The Disposing of Stones
Finally free of an overloaded backpack,
my shoulders roll in time with the waves.
I remove the first stone – daylight reveals the scratched
outline of 'lemons' across it’s smooth centre.
My fingernails spent weeks etching out the vertical
drop of the 'l', the meandering slopes of the 's'.
I think of a yellow cotton dress, the coarse puckering
of her lips, a skyward stare avoiding an open palm.
The lemon stone lands with a splosh and spray.
The next has stale grey surface, starved of salt water.
My fingers had scraped out 'chromosomes'
until their ends remained an angry, bloodied red.
A stuttering of why's. My eyes two confused x's as he slowly
explains why women mustn’t be on the committee.
I toss the chromosomes stone high into the ceilingless sky,
watch it cut through the gentle rising.
A rock pipit pauses from picking at rotting seaweed
to watch as 'lollipop', 'needles' and 'searchlight' soar
behind me, a defiant shining of sea mayweed
rises from the gashes in the rocks.
Conversations with Strangers
A sepia polaroid flutters from my over-crowded cupboard,
a familiar freckled face stares up from the floor.
Six summers ago, you slung your patchwork backpack over
one shoulder, and with a wayward wink said you’d call
soon our texts were filled with excuses and emojis, we made do
with blue thumbs until we were too busy even for that.
Maybe you’ve thought about me over the years
but never for long enough to see if my number still worked.
Occasionally I’m reminded of those tobacco eyes,
your glowstick green dress, that you informed me was yellow.
In my mind you’re always half way through a Purple Rain,
sat cross-legged outside some beachside nightclub
having conversations with strangers you won’t remember,
rolling up, telling them this will be the last night you smoke –
a patchwork backpack by your side, the sunset a dying bonfire
against a splintering of charcoal waves, and you’re imagining
how much better everything would be on a different day,
at a different bar, by a different beach.
