Laura plays her beautiful song,
Sings her beautiful tune.
The rain is falling on this August afternoon,
And I can only see that things are wrong.

Marling you’re making me think,
I’ve let go of what should be mine.
Darling, come back to me one more time.

My signals have been mixed.
I’ve given you different ideas.
But I can’t turn my back,
I can’t face these tears.

She’s at a loss.
Her voice quietens, weakens.
She’s not herself.
She’s been transformed, absorbed into someone else.

She’s a fishing boat in a stormy sea.
Stormy then calm.
Stormy then calm.
Her mind is a whirlwind of easy offences.
She is a pit of jealousy;
a lustful late-teen.
Her mind is a television
broadcasting her desires:
Eight red lines upon a pale back,
Shoulders indented with two curved rows
from clenched teeth.
Morse code embossed on sweet flesh.
Love bites around *******,
on thighs, on buttocks.

A fictional programme.

Turn fiction into non-fiction
and rescue her mind; a mere sailor.
Reach the shore and rescue her.
Find her again.
Find her voice, her strength.
Evaporate the stormy sea and leave her,
wholly herself.

They sat across the room from each other
Mother and daughter, alike in appearance
“Don’t you remember?” the mother said
And for that moment
The perfect image of the daughter’s previous world sat there
Fossilised.

I turn over the pages.
Fold the corners to remember.
Feathers.
I trample through the rest
Of this anthology.
Try to rip and tear to forget.
Concrete.

My sledgehammer is rubber
And my drill is sponge.

The wind is a thief
And my tools are blunt.

We met five years ago
We cared about nothing

Dressed in a towel I kissed you once
I watched you disappear

We are each other's ghosts
We hold each other's memory

My ghost, you are there
And I am waiting