Poetry

Travelling

A tidal movement: being
salted, washed, then
re-submerged, until
to move becomes
a hot, sandy bliss
or a slow forgetting—
the crackle of corn’s dry jacket
and sheets left to parch on the line.

Its raw as a nerve—
to be away from home,
and looked on
by so many windows.

Now you’re a live wire trying
not to earth—
or be drawn down into dank soil
and birthed—
a fresh seed with garish dreams—
skinned meat—

this thing that you are / this lizard’s tongue, flicking
while I’m parched in the desert with a mind like water
a mind like yours sees only black / and the lazy white sun
bleaches every thought it licks

Catriona McLean