Peacock Blues

It was a time of velvet love,
revolution and Snakebite.
My mother gave me beige
polo necks and warned
of the dangers of touching.
My summer job yielded
a red dress from Bus Stop
with a plunging neckline
and a scalloped hem that swirled
when I twirled to Bowie and Bolan
alone in my room, rehearsing
my poses with a feather boa.

I met him on the landing of a cold
terraced in Queensbury, queuing
for the loo and giddy with homebrew.
He pretended to take my picture
with an imaginary camera, squinting
and clicking his tongue. You look like
what’s her name from Pan’s People,
he said as he kissed my neck. He wore
a peacock feather in his blonde locks
and a guitar with a tartan strap. His lips
were curvaceous like Bryan Ferry’s.
He called himself Fritz and a pacifist.

My mother was ironing father’s
socks, underpants and cotton shirts
when I got in, the steam clouding
the kitchen with a choking mist.
She didn’t look up when I gave her
the peacock feather. It’s pretty, I said.
Some call it the evil eye, she replied.
Next day it was tucked behind her
gilded wedding photo on the shelf
with the candles and the broken clock.

 

 

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Compact

The irresistible
urge to check I’m still
there strikes in public spaces.
When no-one’s looking I dip into my bag
for my compact mirror, green mother of pearl carved
with a dragon fly. Smooth, cool, it opens languidly
like a mermaid’s eye. I keep myself at arm’s
length to get the best view, either the top
or the bottom of my face. They don’t
make those mirrors big enough.
I can never see the
whole of me.

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Mix and Match

smoke and alabaster                          the purity of revelation
baby powder and snow                     east and west, dawn and evening
honey dew and mint cream              the illusion of perfection
ivory and seashell                               surrender and treachery
old lace and linen                                the white knight
lavender blush and ghost                  dead-white faces
floral white and corn silk                  cowardice and cold
parchment and pointing                    the second stage of the Great Work
champagne and vanilla                      virgin sacrifice
cosmic latte and glitter                       mercury poisoning
magnolia and pearl                             the boredom of waiting
flax, eggshell and bone                       death rides a pale horse

 

 

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Photo created by the author

Rehab

finally                       upright
and                            braced
swinging                  dead
legs                            between
parallel                     bars
I                                  struggle
towards                    reflections
of                               myself
one                            step
after                          another
says                           physio
walk                          tall
says                           physio
good                          girl
says                           physio
visiting                     hour
enter                         mother
face                           crumpled
and                            pale
my                             baby
is                               broken
she                            says

 

 

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