some nights i, molested by some
morbid desire, stand before my mirror
and examine myself: my chest, my breasts,
two halves divorced, barren land between.
there are few travellers here, each pilgrim
searching for some fiction, some specific
dream in which i had a minor role.
i trace the ravine of my collar bone,
the mountain range of my hips,
mapping ground snapped in so many
postcards, holiday photographs.
these sacred places are advertised on
signs off the motorway. they distract from
the road, calling you to museums, to viewpoints
(dogging sites), to caravan parks, each roadside attraction
less convincing as you wait for the turnoff for the next services:
you’re out of coffee,
your limbs are stiff,
you need a cigarette,
you need to piss
and there’s nothing good on the radio.
one hundred and fifteen miles to dover. you’re thinking
about crashing the car, suddenly slamming your foot down on the
brake so that the lorry behind won’t be able to stop. everything
piles up behind you, metal over metal over metal. it’s hard to
imagine that anything might cut the static for a second.
the internet is ruining our children’s ability to communicate,
it’s ruining their attention spans and giving them long term health
issues: chronic back pain, poor eyesight and rep-
it’s only natural that we think about ourselves in
such terms. we cannot imagine each other’s complexities, yet
when i catch sight of your eyes in the rear-view,
i know that you must have them, must have them like i do,
but i can’t fathom an anxiety to give you.
Amy Kinsman is a poet and playwright from Manchester, England. As well as being the Founding Editor of Riggwelter Press and Associate Editor of Three Drops From A Cauldron, Amy is also the host of a regular poetry open mic. Amy’s debut pamphlet, &, was joint winner of the Indigo Dreams Pamphlet Prize 2017.
April 9, 2018 at 4:51 pm
I like this very much.