selene

conversations with the moon break down my dna

chattering like teeth

until i’m putty

like the type i used as a child in primary school,

art classes with miss farmer on thursday afternoons

creating what was asked

but making it my own

i was never really good with my hands

the right lobe of my brain is much more dominant

we’ve been in an infinite discussion

arguments into advice

with each shine

through black mould window panes,

silent car journeys with the click of the indicator

(like it’s stuttering)

or stumbling home after telling my mum i was guaranteed a ride -

me, holding back the sunlight

so i can talk with selene.

then again, i always breathed imagination

it was the soul in my shoes

as i tried to grip the earth

at least giving me so sort of comfort with each

light tred

sneaking in past midnight

making jam sandwiches to sleep on

waking sticky like stamps

to remind me where i’d been and

where i could go or

heavy thuds

banging my feet into the wood of the stairs

raising hell with each step

slamming the door so hard

it echoes through the hollow house

causing a draught in the air

putty to slime

hard to catch as it runs through my hands

and i begin to juggle it through the cracks in my fingers

like a vagabond performer

making it up as i go along

consistently changing to please the crowds

unorthodox tongue

led by gypsy heart

setting up camp beneath the light

waiting for it to tell me a story

so i can rest