Exerpt
There’s a valley where every face is known by the others.
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It’s in the mountains, protected land. It’s made up of two villages linked by a narrow road that steepens the further you walk. The pub holds court at the bottom. At the very top, the end of the road, there is a mountain which you lived at the foot of for several years. The postman greets you by name and you say hello back, despite knowing that when you’re out he lingers in your house for fifteen minutes, as spied by the upstairs neighbour— reason still unknown.
A river runs parallel to the track, spilling into a series of waterfalls where the locals swim naked. The water comes down from the mountain, carving out pools, each with its own lore.
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One is called the kettle. One is called the horizon. And one is named after you.
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Upon visiting for the first time, the valley reveals fantasies long buried under layers of recent cynicism. For generations, people have gathered up the shining fragments. Miners carved a life for their families by extracting slate. The architect painted his vision onto the bones of the valley itself, coaxing life from iron and rock. The gates pull us into the heart of the mountains. The turquoise gutters try and fail to steer the water away from our homes, no match for the heavy rain. We do our best to battle the damp with coal and wood, attempting to warm stone walls built centuries ago. The round windows become portals for each who has looked out, and lit by fire in the grey evening, glow like orbs, guiding passersby on their way home.
Embers
In the embers of my mind you stay. Sitting quietly in that old armchair.
I still find it charming, despite being long past its prime. The chair, I mean.
I wake up and you rustle. I’m soft and unguarded, one foot still in a dream.
I wash you off as I wash my face.
I look for work and the city hums, people move left and right.
There’s a gap in my breath, a moment of quiet. And in that valley a mountain aches.
I take the bus, say hello to the driver who barely looks up. I climb to the top.
Your tilted face looks up at me from the bench, still waiting at the stop.
In the embers of my mind you live. On the carpet, with one knee bent. Blowing on the fire.
Pulsating. Radiating. Reminding.
I’m on my balcony, six floors up. New beginnings come with a view. We don’t make fires here.
We make big ideas. More people. Tall buildings.
I light a match and you flicker in the spark.
I bathe and see you in the faucet’s reflection.​
In the embers of my mind you wait. Sitting quietly in that old armchair. A watchful eye on the hearth.
I open the door and you look up.
The July Issue
A portal opens
And warm rain flirts
Dampening my leg
Fairly expected, but not welcome
Sitting in the windowsill
At the threshold
Of what’s mine
And what’s Glasgow’s
This is where we meet
In the bedroom
One story up
Window wide
I need something
A little eiffel tower of the end of my cigarette
Considers leaving me behind
And then does
Breaking off
Scattering like lemmings
Unseasonal snow flakes
My right trouser leg speaks up
‘That misty muse is crossing my boundaries’
Egged on by the wind
Into the boudoir
I can see it happening
But it’s worth it for the sense of freedom
I don’t like smoking that much
But sometimes
I need to feel a little sick
Lizard
An emblem
I am
A foothold for Venus
When she’s crawling out
From under the rock
Unsure of what she’ll find
And when it’s safe I sun like a lizard
Achingly female
And striving
To melt into the layers of granite
To soften into a presence worth watching
My body is my home
My body is my home
It’s where I keep my gold
Display my silks
So that I never want to leave
I shake out the rugs
Sewn with shimmering thread
And tend to the fire
With coal and cedarwood
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My body is my home
If I am awake
Then I am in
Why would I be anywhere else?
I am here
You’ll find me in orbit
Lounging on the counter
Singeing toast
And drinking bitter coffee
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My body is my home
One hundred years heavy
Blown from palm, overnight
Out of devastating convenience
And swallowed by darker days
I planted my soul in the earth
And that place became me
Grew a mossy roof overhead
What remains is a caravan
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My body is my home
Sometimes hares sprint across the garden
And neighbours see them and say
How odd, I never have hares in my garden
There’s something strange about that place
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My body is my home
My forehead is the mantle
My hair the flaxen curtains
My heart the hearth
My chatter the armchair
My arms are the path
My eyes the windows
My hips are the walls
My lips are the door
This is what we become
When we belong nowhere
And everywhere
JC Pennys
Mom goes
I have a poor memory
Sometimes I’m in tears
One day I turned around
And suddenly I couldn’t remember anything
Of when you were a young sprite
But do you remember
Hiding in the round rails of clothing?
The difference is
My memory is very vivid
When I couldn’t see you