Sunday, 22 December 2013


Curled up in sleep, your coccyx
calls cuckoo to me, but
which way to go? Upwards,
along the stepping stones of your spine
to that nexus of nerves in your neck?
Or down into your dark heart,
past the fruit of last night into the
fresh taste of this morning?

Friday, 6 December 2013

A Younger Man's Car

The last time she’d done this
cars were like boats and
backseats like couches, she was
lithe and limber and
unbothered by prying eyes, but
cars had shrunk like her
expectations and her limbs were
locked and loaded with
children, stress, frustration, a
sclerotic marriage, so it took
several tentative thrusts before her
juices finally flowed and her
senses decoupled enough to
lift her complaining hips and
accept the limitations of a
younger man’s car.