{"id":12027,"date":"2021-10-15T15:04:38","date_gmt":"2021-10-15T14:04:38","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=12027"},"modified":"2021-11-02T21:18:04","modified_gmt":"2021-11-02T20:18:04","slug":"2-poems-13","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=12027","title":{"rendered":"2 Poems<\/strong>"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/h3>\n

Goblincore<\/strong><\/h3>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

We knew we weren\u2019t right
\nunder our clothes \u2014 our tiny wings,
\nour fur. We practiced eye contact
\non frogspawn at the bottom of the garden.
\nThere were hens and eggs lying
\nunder bushes in their shamble nests \u2013
\nthe bubbled panes of glaire
\nbetween our fingers, the yolk
\na golden toad on your palm!<\/p>\n

We\u2019ve grown to like our faces wild,
\nour chin spikes, our cobby goblin bodies.
\nWe love grass stains, the taste of green
\nas you split a blade and owl it.
\nWe live life close to the ground
\ncrouched and smoky,
\nsharing each other\u2019s illnesses,
\ntaking them on like charms.<\/p>\n

Egg\u2019s broken morning, egg\u2019s freckled skin \u2014
\nit\u2019s always summer with the warm bodies
\nof our hens and sisters.
\nOn winter days your tongue\u2019s
\nan ice lolly in my mouth.
\nWe wake with hair like frozen twigs
\nand kick through the windows of puddles.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

52 Sovetskaya Prospekt<\/strong><\/h3>\n

 <\/p>\n

I\u2019m haunted by the story of a sack.
\nMy coat smells of the unneutered male cat
\nwho is not allowed outdoors.
\nI have local boots,\u00a0the high heels help me
\nto blend in and are useful on the ice.
\nCabbage sizzles blackly in the kitchen,
\nwhere flies fly in perfect squares
\naround the light. It\u2019s minus 11,
\npancakes are steaming the window.<\/p>\n

The story of the sack comes from another country.
\nAnother country and I\u2019m the one
\nwho\u2019s changed. Even my handwriting\u2019s new \u2014
\nthe m\u2019s have lost their scaffolding and curled up
\nin my mouth. I\u2019m forced to act in a play
\nin a language I don\u2019t speak
\nand I like it.<\/p>\n

Who told me the story of the sack?
\nTwo men have moved into the apartment,
\nthey can\u2019t find their country on the map.
\nOur building is always being redecorated.
\nThe neighbours come downstairs
\nto have sex in our kitchen,
\nescaping husbands who are never there.<\/p>\n

But back to the story of the sack.
\nI argue with the men over who is more of a visitor.
\nOur arguments are long and involved
\nbecause they don\u2019t speak English
\nand neither do I. They wear frilly aprons
\nin the daytime and make sure I get enough to eat.<\/p>\n

At night they get drunk and tell me about a girl they knew
\nwho was put in a sack and forced to get married.
\nHer family wouldn\u2019t take her back and I hate myself
\nfor thinking, maybe she was happy?\u00a0Choice removed,
\nkitchen, children, watermelons all summer.<\/p>\n

I take my coat from underneath the cat.
\nThe feathered girls in bright balaclavas \u2014
\ntheir knees bend backwards like birds\u2019 legs!
\nI join them. We skitter
\non snow.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Goblincore \u00a0 We knew we weren\u2019t right under our clothes \u2014 our tiny wings, our fur. We practiced eye contact on frogspawn at the bottom of the garden. There were hens and eggs lying under bushes in their shamble nests \u2013 the bubbled panes of glaire between our fingers, the yolk a golden toad on […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":362,"featured_media":12082,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[401,405],"tags":[404],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n2 Poems - The Manchester Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=12027\" \/>\n<link rel=\"next\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=12027&page=2\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"2 Poems - The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Goblincore \u00a0 We knew we weren\u2019t right under our clothes \u2014 our tiny wings, our fur. 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