I’ve put crumb-covered knives back into tubs of spread,
and left six half-read books down the side of my bed.
(I know I’ll enjoy finding and re-reading them one day
and there’s no room on the shelf anyway.)
I drink gin out of coffee cups
and cheap coffee…
I stared at a deer’s entrails on the asphalt,
pictured my own — about to leave me,
on the sensation of my fingernails,
sinking deep into the padding of the front seat,
half expecting it to become saturated,
hot flux seeping through the seam
at any moment…
Her root emerged, deliberately. I grazed my hands and cut my knee and bruised my hip. I lay there, underneath the Rosewood, waiting — for strong arms, soft lips; for the breeze through leaves to shhhhhh my pain away.
She whispered, “stay”. And so I knelt between her gnarly feet…
I heard the rain had stopped
and left my toast beside the bed.
My feet took me outside;
I ate the sun
to break my fast, instead.
Dawn’s vapour rose to bathe my legs
as I waded through the wheat.
I drank the dew and thought of you;
that I need to eat.
© Amy Knight 2020
wedged deep in grooves of leather shoes. replaced
by sunbleached, waveworn flecks
of white and gold and grey
between bare toes.
dates, times and names
ingrained in tired and
are buried deep
in heaps of sand and shells,
remodelled into castles, played out
in multigenerational games.
Back then, when you and I weren’t talking
you took off your sweater
in the middle of a meeting,
while the boss was speaking,
so that I could see the colour
of your t-shirt underneath
blue-green, the same shade as your irises
in brand new polyester
- it’s been my favourite…
The sun arrived in time to say “Good Night”.
What a cold, wet Spring!
It was already late when we set off walking
and the sky finally took off her clouds.
That cold, wet Spring went on forever!
My face, chest, arms and toes were ready
when the sky finally took off…
I’m searching for a bench, redolent of the one halfway
between our houses, where the white vans drove too fast,
straight past our weeknight curfew.
Now your burning guitar strings are replaced
by the cold chains of these playground swings,
with long-lost mixtapes
m u t t e r i…