Jonathan Noel
Becky lives in Cambridge.
Chine
Clay pooled at the base of the cliff:
we sank in our arms, smooth as a kiss.
We made figures, sky surrounding us
as an oyster holds a pearl,
the chine a lunar landscape
offering abrasions like gifts.
Clay aged fast, cracked,
snapped hair from my arms
and crumbled –
sky shone blue and still.
We made figures on the cliff
looking and leaning together,
walked the shore, bent our backs
as water lifted to greet us,
gathered the clay
soft once more, tender salt
stinging and cleansing
water meets grit –
sky glistening now like wet clay,
sand slightly burning my bare feet.
Wasp
A sweet in my mouth
it landed on my lips
I held myself still
for the dangerous kiss
Tangerine
A rose dies dramatically
clutching a bloody thorn.
I’ll give a tangerine, split skinless flesh
soft as a mouse’s ear,
just a tangerine.
Early morning, seeing the city snow
lies hard and bruised,
I’ll cross the ice in plastic shoes –
before leaving, eat a tangerine,
small room
expanding with breath
into cold outside
as the heart
divides and divides.
© Rebecca Varley–Winter 2015