'Inhale'


I am learning to breathe
all over again.


Where I choose
to discover a kiss
is the art of beauty,
a kind of
entanglement
with freedom,
a sort of
impromptu
cafe scene
where the waitress
is ever so polite
and wishes me
a happy Ramadan
and blessings
for my kids.

And I'll reply
"I don't have any, miss
but thank you
for considering it.
I'd like to wish you
solace,
stability
and roses
in the form
of a tip."

She won't argue with this.

She'll smile
and think back
to a time
when men
only spoke with men,
when gratitude came
in the form of banishment
to the kitchen
or garden
or loom
with endless yarn
to spin.

Let me spin upon fractals,
where situations
become summer
only if you will it.
Let me open my fingers
and tell you
we are young
and silly
even to our last days
spent coddled
by the only ones
who care
to know us:
decrepit, stinking
of bored flesh,
for release
into

Void.
Insignificance.
The embrace of faith
the only deliverance,
the only flame.


Here, learn to breathe with me
all over again.



'wednesday, at home'


caress each flame, seven for each night.
all you hear is wind, the taste
of tiredness in your bed
massaging
your temples.

she sings five octaves.

you read the paper, enquiring
over descriptions you know nothing about.
i presume to say, "don't take a job
where the title eludes you.
twenty-eight dollars an hour?
sure, if you know what it means."

you say my mermaid painting
resonates. i want you to have it.
i want to exchange gifts.
the plays by lorca you gave,
you know how it fits.
green wind and green branches,
you know how i live this.

or try to, dismissive
of each weary driver
on either side of my lane,
their enthusiasm long dried up
by time and smog, by abrasive faces.

a child waves hello, a smile
all you need to remember,
all you need
to go on.

lamb chops.
cubed potatoes,
quartered mushrooms,
half-circle courgettes
with a hint of curry powder. somehow,
this alleviates the cold, this winter dirge
waiting for the sun to surge.

hallelujah for tonight.
you are warm, fed, a crucible
of thoughts spilling softness.
hallelujah. your framed photo
of punga ferns
dreams
with you.



'rather postcards than calendars'


I.

i'm in
no mood for calendars
or dogs named pablo.

sol blossomed.
the four winds
sleep. luna
cannot be seen
watching
over me.

i need postcards.
a vestal flame. stilettos
engraved, the sound of a page.

you want a diary. you want mercy to stay.

and here, this earth is disconnected from your hands.
you sing of sirens destroying themselves, splintered
strands of hair on a narwhal's horn. for you imagine:
what of narnia, what of poppyfields, what of bedsheets
in war? we stumble, i stumble, you soar and fall.
psyche is wandering. eros is beneath the floor.
shellac crumbles. the tone is sweet candour.

you want a diary. you want patience to play.
cross my fingers. crack my collarbone.


II.

leave the front door
slightly open.
moisten lips.
a spanish galleon could've sunk
in st. mary's bay, the madonna's bosom, after all.
each conquistador, a gold-leaf wraith
with forgotten titles.

cadiz. valencia.
their daughters' letters
ended up
in frosted bottles
of gaia's comb.

seaward, can you smell the moors?
orangeblossoms, heather, a gypsy cradle.



'varnish'


strange it is this knowing you
to hold onto mountains

as if the absolute carried
final truth.

you'll find me, buried beneath comets.
gasp and wonder at why misfortune
crawls up our spines. seethe and journey
within words and paintings. these reflections
seem far more real

than the vocal imaginings
within the comfort of this room.

we were foetal once, an enclosed cosmos.
burst and shatter, frail anger
at what-if's
and dreams ground
into soft grey
powder.

this taste of iron will never compare
to the drag of dandelion crowns

floating, floating:
orbs of whispered
content.

restless, restless:
a spiral figure
eight.

Emily Burns

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