Letter as a jellyfish to all my ex's, all of you

You'd like to watch me dance; mesmerised 

by malleable billow, my trail of beads and silk.

It could be nice; we could meet beneath the tumult

for salty tea, I could watch you straining not to touch,

fingers fidgeting watery space as desire seeks

to override logic—again. I might present you

with a plankton salad, garnished with sea weeds

and a side of assorted shrimp; I think I’d enjoy

watching you grimace down each mouthful,

polite now it’s you sitting at my table.

You’ll excuse me hunting while we eat,

revelling in the pleasure of cnidocyte release;

are you sure you wouldn’t like more tea?

I’ll watch your mouth form silent sound, each word

a word-shaped bubble floating up and away, each word

legible—if we could bridge the interspecies translation gap.

You can stay a while longer, if you wish; I could tell you

(though you know most of the story between you)

how I became jellyfish—supple cloud of blown glass,

or a drowned plastic bag heavy with salt, depending

on your point of view; how as I sank in slow motion

my limbs softened and dissolved into ichorous

mesoglea; how I became the sea and the sea became me,

swell, sublime drift, inflation, and deflation, and deflation,

because there’s no steady, no anchorage, no thing

called unchange; I could detail all the days, all the ways

I was stung, but you would see no better;

I could tell you how I became jellyfish, but I won’t.

Instead I’ll flow about our coral table and impart this:

jellies are only a handful out of 13,000 species

in the phylum cnidaria, and of two broad categories,

I am a Medusa. Also, we’re mostly loners,

though occasionally we eat each other;

oh, and I can show you how I learnt to dance,

but remember: don’t touch baby, don’t touch.

Runner up in Wirral Poetry Festival's 2024 Open Competition

Late Night Driving

Heavy quiet of the deep night

hangs around me, do not disturb;

I ease the wheels over the kerb,

gently push into the streetlight’s

glow, and go; fast wheels, cold hands tight

against the steering wheel, I feel

like a stolen moment, unreal

like a blurred dream, and dark scatters

making patterns with the splatters

of my headlights; I grip the wheel.

As published on Fiery Scribe Review

December Evenings

Blanket sky, white frost,

breath clouds hanging past chapped lips,

fir tree wrapped in light.

Weimar mit Freundinnen

Bright day, liquid sunlight spilling from a tipped pot,

staining the ground light and dark marble. We sit outside 

the Bauhaus school and watch a group of students raise 

an unspooled film of plastic, how the breeze fills it, 

how it billows and curls organic, sea creature in the air; 

in the park we make a game of naming trees, birds, flowers, 

then waft between the rippling walls of a cloth house: 

learn it's an artist's response - feminist, environmentalist; 

postcard streets drip with locals, tourists, we trickle through, 

find water, find stamps, read aloud the googled answers 

to our many questions, leave laughter in fallen leaves behind 

us. Later, over a bowl of steaming spices, I free a fervid cry - 

howl I carry in my chest, fear for a limp future--

But in the present here are friends haloed in evening sun

and boarding the return to Leipzig we're ebullient again, 

trading chocolates, thoughts & anecdotes, opinions on living, 

society, health - twittering children in a private sphere 

while evening falls and Germany rushes past ever darker;

looking out the window in a breath of quiet I see again 

that sheet of plastic film outside the Bauhaus school 

how it reared and surged, how it breathed as it heaved,

organic. 

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Beethovenstraße 15 Bibliothek, Donnerstag nachmittag

 

When tapped, laptop keys sound like small glass beads clinking together;

when dropped on wooden desks pens and pencils sound largely the same

only the quality of wood on wood is denser, the plastic on wood more transparent;

when opened, bottles of fizzy liquid hiss, unimpressed at the impertinence;

when placed on wooden desks elbows can make either no noise, or a small

whuffing thump depending on the force used to put them there;

when opened in not-silence a chocolate bars' wrapper will shout unabashedly;

when swung outwards doors will emit a hallways' muffled chatter

like a small child desperate to lighten the mood;

when pushed backwards instead of lifted chairs will moan;

when drawn open or closed zips will whine or drone

depending on the speed with which they are pulled;

when dropped on the floor a book will give a hearty flap of complaint;

when floating in the cavern of a library, whispers in a foreign language

sound much like the unintelligible secrets of the universe;

when surrounded by studious young people there's a tendency

to wonder if you have ever taken anything seriously at all. 

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On a Leipzig Tram in the afternoon

I thought I found a spider's web

glistening silk and diamond in a corner of an open window

but when I looked again it was gone

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