By | 25 June 2023

This morning
the moon and her hands were dry as sea-glass
she held them firm over my mouth
and it was a kind of muzzle
in the kind of rain
that knows your postcode
that smells how the piano smells
like a boot slamming shut
or if the faint glint of
of heat rub
on my inner wrist
could call forth
the kind of rain
science snatched
from my mum before she
could breathe on her own

this is how i want to be burned
on the blunt tip of a star
like dust in a tantrum
slamming the
moon shut
reminds us all of
that time in the autumn evening
when the bulb of flushed tampons
fizzled and left us
fog that was fluffy
like a shipwreck
and the fog became green,
became leaves
And they were returned to
Their rightful places

Shading the train tracks
And all the insects,
dry as sea glass.
Corn and potato
in an alfoil tray,
thick as mascara,
white, like the flowers by the school gate
and their insect mouths as
sad as I was
that time in autumn
when i marked
the postcode of each songline,
on my inner wrist
by the school gate,
i was pulling hair
and the postcodes
were breathing
shuddering on their own
mascara on the landlord’s
gothic walls
and down his
guilty conscience
slides the kind of rain
that soaks contracts
it was then, that i noticed
my shirt on backwards
tobacco on the blunt tip
of a star,

She was the kind of mum
who carried me,
not like a cross on her back
not like a line carries a song
or a song shelters furniture
but like insects in those hands,
dry from all the dishes
and wet because i asked her
so many times,
to recover my runaway umbrella

might be the kind of rain

I talk to my mum about
even as we drift apart
to our rightful places

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