On paper I come across better.
I know from experience
what not to say.
I drag coherence
out of the spiky teeth of the afternoon,
I salvage the couple on the bench
who gave me a dirty look,
the hard-running dogs and children
oblivious to the pitch and roll of tidal erasure.
On paper I’m sentimental as a ripe peach,
gorgeous in a red silk skirt,
my foot in the door of a party
so it won’t slam shut on the music.
I dance like a flamingo ready to mate,
stay up late and never skip the beat.
On paper I can defend my catalogue
of sins. They’re arranged
by colour, and the file includes
an original papal indulgence. It’s easy
to miss, that one – it looks like
a scribbled poem from a morning hour
that was clear before the day lost
its well-made mind. It doesn’t look like
forgiveness. It says nothing of heaven.
On Paper can be found at Blue Mountain Review, September 2022, page 159: https://issuu.com/collectivemedia/docs/bluemountainreviewseptember2022
