the heart laid bare

Archive


HACKED BY KATENBAD
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
HACKED BY KATENBAD
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

the thunder

[potential anxiety trigger warning]

There is thunder on the inside edges of my ribs.
 
I have been laid here in this place
With cold feet and trembling hands,
And staked to the earth
Like a wilted climbing rose in the middle of no man’s land.
Watching with eyes too tired to cry
And bones too weary to pull against the fetters,
And ears upon which fall grating even the sweetest of sounds.
 
There is thunder on the inside edges of my ribs
And stifling stone upon my throat.
 
The battle cries rise high into the air,
Standards are flown,
And spears clash upon shields
As the onslaught begins.
Rushing waves of boots and bayonets
Crash and meet, and separate, and crash again.
As the sightless dead slowly pile up around me
Like vines reclaiming ruins,
They block the sun and bury me in blackness.
I haven’t the strength to fight their weight
For a tiny glimpse of sky.
 
There is thunder on the inside edges of my ribs
And stifling stone upon my throat,
And earthquakes in my head that unsteady my stride.
 
Each day I wake from restless sleep
To pour sulpha into yesterday’s wounds,
And strap myself together with field bandages.
Each day, with my trembling hands,
I fasten the straps of imperfect armour,
Gather twine and stakes,
And begin with tremulous steps
My forced march to the battlefield.
Each day knowing I will lie helpless in the path of pitched battles
Fought on every front.
 
Steeling myself for the crushing noise of battle 
And the pierce of the stake
And the too-tight binding against my aching wrists,
I make my way to no-man’s land
With thunder on the inside edges of my ribs.
 
This war is far from won.


© mjc 17 February 2017

return to home

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.