{"id":3742,"date":"2014-07-02T16:00:32","date_gmt":"2014-07-02T16:00:32","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=3742"},"modified":"2014-07-03T10:56:26","modified_gmt":"2014-07-03T10:56:26","slug":"three-poems-4","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=3742","title":{"rendered":"Three Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

Pepo<\/strong><\/p>\n

Her imaginary friend died on the morning
\nof her eighth birthday and what a lesson to learn
\nas her living friends screech in the garden
\nlike mosquitoes, wearing down the grass with
\ntheir flashing shoes, and the balloons stare
\nback at her with furious eyes. Her cake was
\na castle she cut into pieces with a butter knife.
\nShe ate the tower her imaginary friend
\nwould have lived in, and left her tower
\nwhere it was, as a symbol of her solitude.<\/p>\n

To mark a week since that day,
\nshe takes a watermelon to their favourite spot
\nby the pond, where they first met, under a roof
\nof trees. She sits on the froggy leaves, carves
\nthe watermelon into pieces, feels the ache
\nof something irreversible happening with each
\ncrack of its skin, senses her heart becoming baggy.
\nShe imagines she is cutting up the world, blasting
\nan atlas to its edges. She places the continents
\nin separate spots around the pond\u2019s edge,
\nthen leaves them to contemplate this
\nnew state of being, the insurmountable water.<\/p>\n

 
\n
\nAlabaster Baby<\/strong><\/p>\n

Walking from museum to museum
\nalmost crying in each one<\/p>\n

in front of an oil painting of a bowl of fruit<\/p>\n

in front of a tiny suit of armour<\/p>\n

in front of a glass display box of locusts
\ntreading all over each other<\/p>\n

in front of a fossilized dinosaur dropping
\npink and grey like a cross section of a pork pie
\nsplit in two and varnished<\/p>\n

in front of a stuffed pygmy marmoset
\nhugging the smallest branch<\/p>\n

in front of a reconstructed typical Tudor kitchen
\nwith taxidermied chickens and plastic bread<\/p>\n

in front of hairpins and pots
\na beautifully chiseled miniature family
\nwith a glowing baby you can see light through<\/p>\n

in front of the cake selection in the caf\u00e9<\/p>\n

in front of a mummy with hair on its feet
\na sign that says in 1902 it was publicly
\nunwrapped and the bandages given
\nto audience members as souvenirs<\/p>\n

in front of various instruments for
\ntorture and castration dented with use
\nan animatronic man cowering in the corner<\/p>\n

in front of a series of mosaics
\ndepicting erotic scenes from ancient Rome<\/p>\n

in front of a life-size marble effigy
\nof a girl about my age
\nher hands forced into prayer
\nI want to lean in and kiss her cold lips
\n
\nThe boy<\/strong><\/p>\n

in a verruca sock
\nmade you cry
\nyou still remember
\nhis goosebumpy arms
\nagainst yours in the tight
\nqueue for diving practice
\nhis almost concave torso
\nand the pink toes
\nof one foot curved in
\nthe middle like prawns
\nready to push away.
\nThe girls were already
\nstarting to feel awkward
\nin swim suits
\nhands hovering
\nlike hornets over bodies
\nnot quite landing
\non any place in particular.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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

Pepo Her imaginary friend died on the morning of her eighth birthday and what a lesson to learn as her living friends screech in the garden like mosquitoes, wearing down the grass with their flashing shoes, and the balloons stare back at her with furious eyes. Her cake was a castle she cut into pieces […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":94,"featured_media":3823,"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":[303,306],"tags":[307],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nThree 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=3742\" \/>\n<link rel=\"next\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=3742&page=2\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Three Poems - The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Pepo Her imaginary friend died on the morning of her eighth birthday and what a lesson to learn as her living friends screech in the garden like mosquitoes, wearing down the grass with their flashing shoes, and the balloons stare back at her with furious eyes. 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