Sammi Gale: Moons
I built this space from two moons
the way your bones would be,
pinned into position.
The moons compete,
each with blue light,
neither wants to be the dark side,
neither wants to look like
they are hiding something,
knowing lovers always gravitate
to the warm side of the bed.
Here is electric blue,
a cast of neon,
a death mask
behind which dreamers can meet
and solar flares will allow their tongues
and where two moons
take turns sleeping.
I am kitsch. You are the real pier.
For you breathe with a surety – that is –
You sputter out swarms of starlings
like they are confetti pieces.
Of course, they get caught
in the wind,
strangled this way and that,
they rip right past me,
through and away, crossing and merging,
with that back-of-the-eye-lid glitter,
like you would do
if you weren’t the mirage
of a mirror; pricking cocktail sticks
in the subconscious,
a drunken elegy.
I wear an elegant gown, garlands of pearls
draped along my edges – just look
at this seagull losing its balance
on the buoy of a lamplight -
and look at the starlings
ripping between us,
spelt out in Velcro.
I’m staring at you,
skeleton of the sea.
Maybe it’s like holding chopsticks,
Patience, waiting for the bite,
Snapping at grains of rice
Playing kiss-chase around the bowl.
Sitting on a wall,
People-watching, sucking ginger,
Chasing down a birthday present,
Sifting through old movie posters,
Waiting for the thing to snap
Into place. Everything is held back
Like a dammed river,
And rather than wait for the drift
We stagger in the silt of an unmade bed
With legs made of oars.
I am the boat with a stomach full of rain,
and I am faceless even when the moon
peers in. Some days a couple walks past;
they don’t hold hands, but at least
they have each other. The boy walks over,
looks across the clouded water,
tests out my bench to see if he can sit there.
The girl forever pulls wind-laced hairs
from her mouth and slings stones
into the sea. Every time it rains
their tracks disappear, though I can guess
the boy tries to engage her with a kiss;
they run back into town
under the cliff, order scones
and eat them where there are witnesses,
while I slowly fill: the rain caresses
the green slab of water between my ribs,
white paint, flaked with wooden scabs.
Sammi Gale has not published poems before. This is his first submission. He is currently
studying creative writing at UEA.
In his spare time he edits
a short fiction magazine called Exit.