Poetry

Washed-up

An oil slick washed up

In my veins last night:

Lust drunk breathlessness

Inspired the hand that drew a new track

On the map of sinew and thread.

The receding tide took nothing back,

But left remnants

Of well known household cleaner

And childhood half-lived.

Cravings for moon-distance

And weighted hopes

Linger in sickening limbs.

This is crueller than cancer,

The brutal caress

That touched needles   

Filled with expansive nothingness,

Each one leeching away sentiment

Like an autopsy.

I won’t make old bones,

Or be left to sit and rust,

Moaning away my days

For those who were long dead:

Amen, lest we forget.

Tell me, can you hear me yet?

Alicia Clow