qarrtsiluni

This morning the waves are restless.
Underneath them things are living out their lives.

Pebbles are piled up at the sea-edge
as if trickled from a huge hand.
Each one has its own genealogy,
a parent rock, a place it has travelled from.

The fine rain is almost horizontal.
I breathe it in, dissolve it into my blood.

The sea is happiest as froth, stretching out
its fingers, skipping faster, making shapes.
When it bangs itself onto the shore
it feels a release

as if moving its shoulder-blades diagonally
one way and then the other.

by Fiona Robyn

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:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::

On waking I think of death, or rather decay—my hands
are violently folded in towards my wrists, they like to bend
that way, a fox curled up in the snow, the flesh covering

my veins bunched up into ridges. I imagine the joints—
a door flung the wrong way, tendons stretched too far and fraying,
and apologise, straighten them out, hoping these small kindnesses

might pay one day, remembering to keep my back hoisted straight,
to take my vitamins… and my body tries its best, washing away
the broken bits, spitting out the waste, but nevertheless

pieces are breaking off my bones, muscles are slackening like perished
elastic bands, skin is crinkling like a peach too long in the bowl.
A million microscopic deaths a second. I straighten out

my wrists, knowing tomorrow morning I’ll do the same,
hoping I’ll be lucky enough to wear like a leather sofa, softening
over time, keeping hold of my creases, my old frame bending

and cracking in places. Lucky enough not to be stopped
by a bang in my chest, felled by a terrible blooming of cells
in my breast. Lucky enough to feel the years in my wrists.

by Fiona Robyn

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:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::

Eddie

She has a moustache
and comes round twice weekly
to iron my shirts.

Today she looks up
with a twinkle in her eyes.
I smile

noticing for the first time
her beautiful eyelashes –

*

Gordon

When he first told me I gagged.
Three years have passed. Now they have
a house together, a life.
My wife visits them alone.
Still when I close my eyes I see
their naked bodies lying together.

Often my wife brings home news.
I fake indifference. Then she brings
the first sweet honey from bees
they keep in wooden hives.
It was the best I’d ever tasted.
I spread it on my toast for breakfast.

Each morning I think of my son.
The size of my love. When I scrape
the last of it from the bottom
of the pot I drive to their house.
A young man comes to answer the door,
shakes my hand and asks me in –

*

Oliver

We sit in awkward silence
side by side on the sofa.
I’m thinking I’m too old for all this

when my dead wife appears
perched on the television.
She gives me the thumbs up

so I reach across
and click off the lamp
to see what will happen.

Fingertips like cobwebs
land on my inside arm,
travel up and down –

by Fiona Robyn of a small stone

brings it back like birds exploding
from the tops of forests.
The blanket heat of Sarawak.
His dirt-brown skin, French accent.

We were too young to know about sex.
We curled up like cubs
in the grass behind the squash courts.

by Fiona Robyn of a small stone

There was a seizure — she shook her husband awake.
Now she lies on this bed, won’t open her eyes.

Her husband sits beside her, thinks of the cancer.
Every day there is more of her hair on her pillow.

The roots of it are slipping out of their sockets
as she lets out each breath. There. There.

by Fiona Robyn of a small stone

An old pop song: the lyrics rise up
from the silted depths intact.

Just when we think we
know it, the world pulls away.

No wonder we hold on tight
to these strings of words.

by Fiona Robyn of a small stone

The train mutters
to itself, no-one listens.
Looking out, her eyes are full
of early morning mist.

Every time she passes a cow
she dips her head
in silent acknowledgement.
She belongs with grass.

by Fiona Robyn of a small stone