Military Associations
If only I could throw my arms around that
kiss of yours who only did it so they could
feel the city air in your underwear hooked on
god’s boys & sugar, da’s knocking on the
door again but ma won’t let him in. Lay down
paving stones over the past and step over them
toward the foreign greengrocer thinking of so many
regular things like digestion, yiddish theatre and marriage
Spaghetti
It is strange not a single thing missing.
Though I woke in a mouldy attic & 8hr drive & have
no money, no home, no company & certainly
no beloved instead a large red
ceramic bowl of piping spaghetti like swallowing
a fist of thoughts I did not know the fact that
Hope tastes of tomato sauce this bowl placed before the
bridge of my filthy nose every swallow one single
degree before burning means Holy and yes!
Bewildered by the burden of living I am delivered
into clean hands of Hellenic waiters from the womb of
displeasure if this bowl ends I know
I will begin falling as a cold block of
heavy wood from the edge of said nose.
Turn my back on the silhouette of a woman
weeping by the window and spoon warm
meaty remains into my irresponsible pit of
chaos. Well, Darling - the lack of a bed to sleep inside
tonight takes my bowl away to be washed.
The Long One
While I wait for you to raise your fist to
me I place a live bug in a party balloon
blow it up then hang said balloon outside
my bedroom window so I can watch
the bug grow old and wise while nothing
else happens in the evening as friends
come round with candles and pickles
expecting card games & futilities
I’ll say, have you met -
skin yet? and point to the party balloon
________________
Blossom Hibbert has a pamphlet, suddenly, it’s now, published by Leafe Press. Her work has appeared in places such as The Temz Review, Litter, International Times and Buttonhook Press. She hides along the Mediterranean - drinking black coffee, picking olives and finding inspiration in the streets.
These poems were selected by Anthropocene guest editor Tom Branfoot.
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