What is a ghost?

Dancing tissue statically charged on a child’s crown

What is a song?

Sierra October November Gone

What is a truffle?

My or your pleasure, sweet or earthy, planted soiled treasure

What is a fog?

A side effect of the stress, screened for hours, clouding the rest

What is a cheese?

Coagulated photographic memory, sourfaced

What is a salt?

My mood

What is a thunder?

My demeanour

What is a clove?

I ate this question, clenching my jaw as my throat tightened

Pity ripened

Fleshing out fields

Running for miles

Years

Tears

Nimble fingers

Presently stuck

Wreath muffled 

Icy cry

At the pier
Aged twenty-one
I have run out of words
As a child they could not keep me from the national curriculum

I knew pain
Shards amongst the pebbles
And waking to see skeletons burning in the distance
But more intoxicating

We’ve been inseperable since
Adjacent to punk
Now I’m meditating and sleepily counting syllables
But I survived that night so I knew I was here for the long run

Facepalming at my work station
Felt like a new world
Mapping my way
In my glitter scrunchie

Halting my bolting body
A pear, a pear
Faux fur coats in the style of a spice girl
Newly-dyed orange hair

Curse is an anagram
Of my husband’s
name

Now mine

Names were a source
Of torment
Like sauce

Labelling
Line nine

Trying to be
The person you
Expect

Not mine

I am crossing that line

I
am
analysing death.
It
is
so
effed.
________
| I bury my |
| fear here. |