{"id":2483,"date":"2013-04-15T00:09:23","date_gmt":"2013-04-15T00:09:23","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=2483"},"modified":"2013-04-29T15:19:48","modified_gmt":"2013-04-29T15:19:48","slug":"three-poems-3","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=2483","title":{"rendered":"Three Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"spring
\n <\/p>\n

<\/a>luminiferous aether<\/strong><\/p>\n

In the cousins\u2019 room the light bulbs crack.
\nThere are limbs reaching out
\nfor the Peter Pan collars of speechless girls.
\nThey wait in skin that is not their own.
\nIn the dark they forget the names
\nof each others\u2019 mothers. They kneel.
\nThey feel the fur creep to their necks
\nfrom the blue-bitten wolves.
\nIn fractured handbags they carry fabric
\nand knitted souls. They stretch themselves.
\nTheir heels find conkers and the stumps of trees.
\nThe stench of wheat beer breadcrumbs.
\nOutside there is music to cut their bones.
\nIn groups, they search their hair for keys. Their poor
\nscarred heads. They know too many things now.
\n 
\n<\/p>\n

the glow-worm chasers<\/strong><\/p>\n

We ride to school in green barrows
\nour balloon heads forever growing. In the forest
\nwe unstitch ourselves. Bow to one another
\nin the shadows of syrup trees. We have
\none hour to decide which one of us
\nis mortal. We are light bulbs. We give gifts
\nof Christingles to light up the leaves.
\n 
\n<\/p>\n

#1<\/strong><\/p>\n

Caitlin has ghosts on her tongue, seaweed in her bladder and trees in her groin. She is Mary: growing, growing in a Victorian fruit bowl. She is a washing machine. She scrubs her own moon fingers when all the people sleep. Caitlin is a double-harbour. She is the base of Noah\u2019s ark and she doesn\u2019t know Noah. No to Noah and yes to beasts. Dead and alive within the branches of her and her cape and her saucepan lids. Caitlin is in a band. Caitlin is<\/em> the band. She sings all the instruments of the voices collected in the pit of her soul. The forest is listening and the dead are here, too. No to Noah and yes to Caitlin. She waters her lips and the dead stars shine.<\/p>\n

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

In the cousins\u2019 room the light bulbs crack.
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