They sit at the dinner table, listening to each other chew on their resentment A tree branch fingers the window – scrape, scrap, tip, tap Her mouth is pulled like a sting, into a tight line Knife scrapes on fork and the light catches the sheen of the blade: a coded warning flash to an unmanned lighthouse that tastes metallic She’s heated metal folded over and over in relentless rings of Damascus steel; its waves and swirls forever embedded with those concentric circles of cells which were multiplying and loving and growing Then suddenly dropping like red poisonous berries. Her body still pulses with taunting nausea. She longs to run, headfirst, feet pummelling a riverside path, crushing twigs and defenceless cowering snails beneath her weight of one Better still, she’d run in a straight line, along a man-built pavement, wet with linoleum fish scales, to escape this circular maze But coiled inside herself, within recovery, the high burn roars in her ears, along with the pitter patter of falling leaves. Autumn is an honest season; disrobed, exposed, no secrets No plumb fruit, taunting blossom, or white magic. Coached in jealous crab apples; turning to bitter inside. Her paled hands fall to her middle, She holds the whole universe inside her emptiness.
two lines, )) now I wait in nauseas worry, round shapes merging, I place one hand in the small of my back, leaning beyond the now, my other fingers reply to flutters: tap, tap, tap Right, time it use counters for minutes no pattern, it’s vibrant waves and zig zag lines of marching ants and birling frogs tearing apart a lost map and then a warmed pause of lavender breath kept still, in a hot water bottle then this circular embrace over and over holds hands with triangles and stars and black and jagged foil in a vice it’s everything and everywhere and I’m somewhere else entirely and again infinite rings sing burning lines and from the depths of myself: Here
Editor's note: This piece is an intricately laid out poem, which we had published as an image to preserve the formatting. While we're still recovering this image from the surviving backups of our broken old site, please find the surviving image description below:
Four stanzas are arranged in lines that rise and dip and intertwine. The lines replicate how the levels of the hormones each poem is titled after rise and fall.
One reads "progesterone dips, dives like an anxious seabird in worried wings, where did I leave the baby is the oven still on...".
Another reads "Oestrogen cocooned in eternal motherhood, casts shadows behind like dominoes clacking one back against the other."
a third, this one in blue, reads "on high love over-spills fills down deep joins the dots with rain-drops up and soars. My view changes forever, rolling hills below call their long night chant alone in the dark, echoes of cries of love and hope and bravery bonds with my baby".
Bundled up close, but slowly coming apart into two silhouettes, rather than one Still joined at the part that cries and feels And draws my new outline Each new chapter is a slightly bigger handprint Cut inexpertly with safety scissors A punctured dummy uncovered from its secret hideyhole signals proof you have cut an adamant tooth I show you how to try the shape sorter out for size; so many options presented to your hands I’m formed in play-doh, crêpe paper, and hands, drawn round and stuck to the fridge; crayon offerings with open, trusting palms That trace my life line over and over before falling asleep The days run into one another, like paint dripping down the sheets of paper strung up on the clotheshorse I’m sketched by flaps taped back on to books; which I can still fix And by train track pieces clipping together childcare + home + work + a new little brother While the engine keeps spinning along, I tip out the dressing-up box to search for a suitable costume for each role And you’re running like a river, scattering outgrown velvety skin Scraping scooter punctuation marks And I breathe, and the day is now shaped like patent shoes lined up in uniform colours and daily reading book logs and clocks and I’m waiting again; this time, in the windy afternoons before three o’clock When you’re still little enough to run full speed into my arms But starting to build corners to your life that I don’t know In your sleep, your eyelashes still flutter on your cheeks as I once felt and replied, tap tap tap, to those tiny feet.
Amy B. Moreno is an experienced interpreter and translator, moving on to writing poetry and prose for both adult and child readers. She has been published by The Glasgow Women’s Library blog and The Scottish Book Trust, plus several websites and blogs, and has upcoming work in The Ogilvie Review, and Seahorse Publications. She is currently based on the eastern coast in Scotland.
You can connect with her on Twitter: @Amy_B_Moreno