Eclipsed by Tina Cole

Posted: 12/07/2016 by vequinox in Literature

I am not a silent poet

I’ve been thinking of the things you said

the day we watched the eclipse,

about the long shadows cast by that lumpy

woman who made you call her mother.


Treadling through shallow pocketed days,

a lolling tongue of tape measure at her throat.


How she stitched up your boyhood

in that house where pollarded trees

clubbed out the sun and so many

sharp things under foot

with only an ancient Hoover

coughing its own death rattle

to protect you.


She made you orbit her sun.


Those framed Instamatic smiles

mock your memories;

dandified in her latest creations,

spontaneity buttoned up

by snappy rejoinders until

you were so zipped you began to fray.


Through greasy windows

your moon always looked harried.


No wonder we had to part.


Yesterday when I knocked,

her wobbling silhouette filled the frame,

still spitting out insults,

she laughed when…

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