the heart laid bare

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push
a strange distance
SWIMMING ALWAYS DOWNWARD
A ONCE-FAMILIAR LANDSCAPE
No Apology
the thunder
tinder
VERBAL PORTRAIT OF A CAT OWNER
critical shortage
the sky we thought we knew
CIRCA SOLEM
almanac
baby
dearest orlando
FIVE MONTHS
A LETTER TO THE UNDESERVING
cactus heart
would we
the fall of giants
paradise lost
Dad
after you've gone
time
a smile from the eyes
trepidation
why so cold
fix this
swallow me
untitled 8
insular
cry alone
robin
quicksand
laces
D.I.S.C.
stripped
waving goodbye
your open eyes
enemy within
mortal
untitled 4
sleepless
OUTSIDER
untitled 9
come dream with me
in the face of adversity
one word
the dark of the night
untouchable
one and one makes two
you burn me
see me
this shaken core
my lover
helen
my room
his words
foolish
rita
chalk drawings
the longest night
stupid skeleton
CLOTHES MAKETH
FIRST LASTS
STELLAR
TODAY
I WATCHED A MAN DIE TODAY
THREE WEEKS
this slippery slope
untitled 5
Arrows
First Kiss
The Talk Of Love
Nicotine
Blackout

after you've gone

It’s raining now, the night before we bury you.
I sit here in the quiet,
Just listening to the rain.
You must have done this countless times.
A single light burning and the endless sound of raindrops on the roof,
Alone with your thoughts.
 
I think of the ground at the cemetery,
How the rain will soften the earth into muddy puddles,
And bruise the petals of the convenience-store flowers
Left there by relatives.
And even though your funeral is indoors,
I’m mentally revising my choice of shoes
And reminding myself to bring a coat,
Just as you would have done.
 
I’m wearing red tomorrow, you know.
You’d have liked that.
 
When someone dies
It’s like you take a deep breath in
And hold it -
Through the planning,
Through the details,
Through the endless phone calls and sympathy cards,
Until you get to the other side of the funeral
And you can breathe out.
Holding that breath feels like bombs exploding in your chest
Like all you want to do is let it go
But you hold it in
Because not holding it is unthinkable.
 
When someone dies they send you flowers
And the house fills up with the smell of lilies and sorrow
And doors that we’re afraid to close.
 
Because wearing black
And closing doors
And breathing out
Means that you’re really gone.
I don’t want you to be gone.
 
There is no sense to any of this.
I sit here smothering in the scent of lilies
And I wonder if it’s raining where you are.

For Dad x

© mjc 01 November 2015

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Biography

Daughter, sister, aunt, godmother, friend, public servant; self-confessed hermit, confirmed cat person, sporadic baker, irreformable yarncrafter, voracious reader; occasional wit, voluble shower vocalist, frequent sacrifice on the altar of brain-to-mouth filter fails, random shit-slinger, unrepentant purveyor of puns and dad jokes, writer and poet.

I have always lived by the theory that no matter what you do for a living - if you are compelled to write, if you wake up in the night to scrawl the contents of your dreams on a notebook beside the bed, if no event in your life seems complete without you recording it, if you are drawn to comment upon the world - then you are a writer.

These are my words.