Closed. A Gift.
A cut. Buried in the depth of you.
Just enough to leave you in ruin
But not so the eye can see.
A fissure the exact shape and size
To rip through more than a canyon
Of your furtive self.
Like an imaginary friend
The implicate re-writes
On the surface of all things.
A twin whose tidings
Pass as secret notes
Between children’s fingers.
© Naomi Wood
He is speaking to her about the weather
About the decline in art and the literary canon
And I am watching with my hands
But her gaze never leaves her garden
See how the tide recedes with her skirts at her waist
Only to return at noon
With refurnished ardour?
I, too, have held kindness at arm’s length with civility
I have favoured a solitary moon
Over the clamour of bright voices
For fear they would drown out my singularity.
There’s a painting of a girl
With a face like thunder
A hellion on her back, menacing her innocence…
After all a lover carries troubles to hang about their necks
As garlic is warlock to the vampyr.
Yet still she prunes the precious plants.
Tenderly shakes their fresh nubile buds free from their matrix
And snarls the long shadow which presses from behind
With pretty words that jangle from his music box mouth
And I, go searching barren lands for answers
Fully locked and loaded woman
I am waxing lyrical with the moon.
Just a dip in the lake at harvest
And I emerge dripping prolific and riotous.
Listening to her silence from across the kitchen table
I am reminded again of both lightness and depth.
She gazes at the silken sleeping bag shell
Of a chestnut and I know
Of all the constellations
Written in hot wired synapses
Blood vessel fused astral trajectories
All we have is the secret and a promise to share it
Like wild fire monsoon deliverance.
© Naomi Wood